


Skip the Charades

by BonkyBornes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, M/M, Nightmares, Slow Burn, please comment author needs validation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:46:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 66,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24240781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonkyBornes/pseuds/BonkyBornes
Summary: After Steve admits to Bucky that he loves him, things don't go smoothly. Steve still becomes Captain America but rather than becoming a Howling Commando, Bucky decides to go home after being liberated from Azzano. Or at least he tries. Following a series of tragic events, Bucky still becomes the Winter Soldier.After Bucky breaks away from the grip of Hydra, he gets an apartment back in Brooklyn. It doesn't take long for him to run into the old face of Steve Rogers. Can they become friends again, or is the memory of their last encounter too much?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

_*November 1941*_

Bucky stared at Steve, all 90 pounds and drenched from the pouring rain that neither of them noticed anymore. He didn’t remember how they’d gone from laughing to this. 

“Did you hear me, Buck? I said I love you.” Steve stared at him, eyes wide and hopeful and just a little apprehensive. He should be terrified at what he’d said, but Steve had always been more than a little stupid and reckless. There was a healing bruise beneath his left eye. His split lip had finally started to heal.

“Please don’t do this,” Bucky whispered. He was terrified enough for both of them.

Steve had just taken a step forward. It would be nothing to push him away. But Bucky did nothing. Steve put a hand on his elbow. The touch burned Bucky all the way to the bone.

“Steve, please. Let’s just go home.” Bucky thought he said the words, but either the rain was too loud or they’d been blocked by the painful lump in his throat. 

Steve was against his chest now. It wasn’t the first time they’d been in this position--of course, they’d hugged before--but it was different this time. That was the thing with realizations. They turned innocent things into implications for more. When Steve confessed, it forced Bucky to dredge up what he’d promised himself he’d never think about. Because if he didn’t think about it, then maybe it would go away. 

But staring at Steve, 90 pounds and beautiful and everything that mattered, he was forced to realize nothing had changed. And god help him if he wanted to do nothing more than grab Steve’s shoulders, pull him against him and kiss him like he’d never kissed anyone. And that terrified him. 

“Bucky?” Steve looked up at him and Bucky came to another realization that he hadn’t actually said anything. 

All he had to do was push Steve away. His arms moved, but they didn’t do what he wanted them to do. A hand cupped Steve’s cheek, his thumb sweeping across a sharp cheekbone. Or maybe it was exactly what he wanted. He didn’t know anymore. 

_Don’t._ His other hand pressed against the small of Steve’s back. _Stop_. If Steve was taller, their noses would be centimeters apart. _If you stop, you can still salvage this._ It would be easy to explain away this positioning. Bucky had stepped forward to prevent Steve from falling. The hand on his cheek was to check for bleeding. There’d just been a fight. 

Steve still stared up at him. A seed of doubt had finally worked its way into his eyes. He bit into his bottom lip. Bucky swallowed. And then before he knew what he was doing, he bent down and crushed his lips against Steve’s. Steve wrapped his skinny arms around Bucky’s back and stood on his toes. 

Bucky had dreamed about kissing Steve Rogers for as long as he could remember. He’d never told anyone. He wasn’t stupid; he knew what happened to the men and women who dared to go about their lives publicly with a member of the same gender; he heard his father at dinner, muttering about how they would ruin the city, how they were vagrants and disgusting, how the government should do more than make homosexuality illegal. George Barnes was proud of his son—strong and handsome as he was, he would have any choice of woman he wanted. 

_Stop._ Steve wound his hand in Bucky’s hair, pulling him closer. _This is wrong_. Bucky angled his head just slightly, allowing the kiss to deepen. _If anyone sees you._ He tasted the tang of Steve’s blood from his split lip. _They’ll never let you join the army._ Bucky pushed Steve against the alley wall, giving them some protection from the pouring rain. _STOP._ Steve’s lips parted slightly. _STOP._

Bucky pushed him away and heaved in air. What did he just do? He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, trying to scrub away the feeling of Steve’s lips on his.

“Let’s just go home,” he whispered. “Forget that this happened.” He scrubbed harder. Breathing became a chore. 

“I don’t want to forget, Bucky.” Steve breathed hard as well. He stepped forward. Bucky stepped back.

“This is wrong.”

“Why? Because they say so?” Steve stared at him, eyes wide in defiance. It was startling that so many thought he was weak. Seeing him here, arms folded over his chest, he looked anything but. 

Bucky nodded. If everyone agreed, if there were laws about it, if people went to prison, if people were killed because of it, if it brought this level of terror, it had to be wrong. He tried to ignore the fact that he longed to do more than just kiss the man in front of him. 

“They say I shouldn’t be allowed to live, are you going to start agreeing with that, too?” There was a defensive edge to Steve’s words now. It seemed like eons ago that they were walking the docks the day Bucky taught Steve how to turn his words into a weapon; not that Steve had needed his help. 

“If people find out, they’ll kill you, Steve.” He couldn’t understand how Steve didn’t understand that. He thought that out of anyone, Steve would understand it the most. 

Steve shrugged. “They haven’t managed to do it yet.” 

A strange buzzing pressed itself over Bucky’s ears. He couldn’t do this. He wanted things to go back to the way they were before, to when he could ignore his feelings and stomp them down, to when he could be the son his father thought he was. 

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?" Steve asked. "You say a lot, actually.”

A cold chill inched its way up Bucky’s spine. “I don’t. You’re wrong.” 

“Usually it’s nothing, but occasionally you say something about your da. A few nights ago you said you loved me.” 

“You’re wrong,” Bucky said. He was speaking automatically now, his brain working in overtime to process everything. This wasn’t happening. It was a nightmare. But if it was a nightmare and he did talk in his sleep, Steve would still know. 

Steve stepped back up to him and kissed him hard. On impulse, Bucky kissed him back. And then he pushed him back. 

“I don’t, I can’t-” Bucky didn’t even know what he was saying anymore. There was a dark haze on the edge of his vision. 

“You can’t what?” Bucky looked up to see Steve’s eyes were hard. “You can’t love me?” 

“I can’t-” Bucky couldn’t even say it. 

“Then why did you kiss me back? Hmm? Were you hoping to say I caught you unawares? Were you hoping that you could prove the rumors true--that Steve Rogers really is a faggot?” 

“I can’t-” He tried to swallow, but the lump in his throat had grown. 

“You can’t what? Use your words, Bucky. That’s what you’re always telling me, isn’t it?” 

“I can’t be this!” Bucky yelled. “I can’t love you. It’s...I can’t.” 

Steve didn’t even have to raise his voice for the words to cut him to his core. “You can’t, or you won’t?” 

“I-” 

Steve nodded, lip curling. “Fuck you, Barnes.” 

“I-” Bucky couldn’t do anything. Everything burned; his chest from the lack of air he was taking in; his eyes from where tears threatened to fall; his lips where he could still feel the imprint of Steve’s. He saw Steve’s mouth moving, but he couldn’t hear anything over the buzzing in his ears. He wanted to explain himself, but he found his voice useless. If Steve knew what his father said at dinner; if Steve saw the men beaten to death; if... 

Steve was shivering now. The rain had turned cold. Or maybe it had always been cold. Bucky removed his jacket and automatically went to drape it around Steve’s shoulders. Not that it would do any good. They were both drenched to the bone; had been for a while. Even Bucky would be lucky not to get sick. 

“You think a jacket is going to make this better?” Steve asked with a laugh. For some reason, the laugh was the worst thing Bucky had ever heard. It was a twisted perversion of its usual sound. "You think a jacket will make everything go back to normal?" 

“Please take it,” Bucky heard himself saying. 

And to his surprise, Steve did. He just held it in his hand like he didn’t know what to do with it. 

“Can we just go home? Talk about this when we’re dry and have had time to think?” He couldn't think now, not with the feeling of Steve's lips... _STOP._

“I don’t need time to realize you’re just like everyone else,” Steve said. “I never want to see you again.” 

“Steve.”

Bucky didn’t know how he’d expected this to end. Maybe part of him had hoped they would just be able to forget; they could pretend it was a shared nightmare and just move on; put it in a box, bury it deep in the conscious and move on. Because no matter how bad this was, no matter how wrong their feelings were, nothing was more frightening than the thought of a life without Steve by his side. 

“I hope you have the life you want. Go join the army-"

"Steve." Bucky couldn't recognize his own voice. 

"-Find a girl--you have the top pick, right? Be another brainwashed pig of the United States.” 

Jacket still in hand, Steve turned and walked out of the alley, leaving Bucky alone, freezing and more confused than he’d ever been. It took him a long time to learn he could move, and longer yet to find the strength to do so. 

When he made it back to the apartment hours later, he half-expected Steve to be sitting at the table. They’d had fights before--never this bad, but usually bad enough to require a degree of separation between them. Bucky had always returned home after walking the streets to find Steve sitting at the table. And they’d talk and figure things out. And their relationship would be stronger than ever. 

But this time, the apartment was empty and all of Steve’s things were gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I was going to take a break from anything writing-related until my brain healed from finals, but my brain doesn't know what that means and shoved this in my face. I'm in pain. LET ME WRITE HAPPY, BRAIN. 
> 
> The two biggest songs that forced this creation are:   
> 1\. Skip the Charades by Cold War Kids (this entire album, actually)  
> 2\. So will I by Ben Platt


	2. Chapter 2

_*June 2016*_

Memory was a funny thing. It both hunted and escaped him, often at the same time; an infuriating cycle that left him both wanting more and less. When he wanted to forget, his mind replayed his worst moments until he was sick from regret and horror. When he searched for answers, they danced on the periphery, staying just out of reach. 

Right now, Bucky Barnes wanted to forget. After seventy years, he’d finally broken free from Hydra. He was his own man again—at least, as much as his broken mind would allow him to be. He’d found an apartment in Brooklyn, fairly close to where he’d grown up. Comfort and familiarity were more important to him right now than finding someplace new. And if it got to be too much, he could move. Nothing tied him down anymore. The only person he listened to was himself. 

Carrying the single box containing everything he owned, he walked up the stairs. The only available unit had been on the fourth floor. Bucky would’ve preferred a floor lower, but it was right across from the stairs, end of the hall. If it came to it, running would be easy. But there wouldn’t be a reason to run. He was out. He’d made sure no one knew where he was. He’d used a different name to sign the lease. 

He was safe. He was his own person. His mind was his own. All he wanted was to try and forget and live the life that was stolen from him.

There was no one in the hallway when he exited the stairwell. Bucky breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want to meet his neighbors, at least not yet. Not until he was comfortable. Not until he’d made the apartment into a safe place. Even after being out of Hydra’s clutch for a full year, too many people pressed around him brought a wave of inescapable panic. 

Bucky just hoped his neighbor was a heavy sleeper. He stayed awake for as long as he could, but even a super-soldier needed rest. As a child, Bucky had had an overactive imagination. Dreams had never brought a source of comfort. Now, dreams brought a merciless onslaught of memory, distorted just enough to be even more terrible than the actual event. 

Adjusting his grip on his box, Bucky slipped his key into the lock, opened the door, and let himself in his new apartment. Though small, it was nice and homey. The kitchen opened to the left of the door, and the living room stretched beyond. Big windows let in large quantities of sunlight on both the south and east walls. Bucky would buy new locks for them and the front door tomorrow. 

He followed the hallway to the right of the front door and entered his room. It was already furnished—another reason he’d taken the apartment. A full-sized bed sat along the south wall, right in front of a large window. A small desk and dresser sat in the middle of the room as if the last owner hadn’t known what to do with them. Bucky set the box on the desk and moved it to the east wall and the dresser to the west.

Satisfied with the placement of the furniture, he opened the box and pulled out his meager possessions. Notebooks, another leather jacket, a few knives and handguns, two photographs. They were the only things he had from his childhood. He’d been amazed to find them in the same place he’d hidden them before leaving for the war. A part of him hadn’t expected to return and he’d wanted a piece of him to always exist. 

He picked up the one in a black frame, wiping a thumb across the dusty glass to reveal the faces of his ma and sister, leaving his own covered in grime. After a second thought, he pulled his sleeve over his hand and dusted the entire thing. There was a large grin on his face as he sat beside Becca. Their ma stood behind them, hands on their shoulders. His stomach twisted like it always did when he saw photos of himself from before the war. Bucky was nothing like that young man anymore, when he’d laughed more often than not. 

Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, he set the photo on his desk. He hesitated with the notebooks. They were everything he’d been able to remember about his life before he’d fallen from the train. If he had to run, he wanted them in an easy location to grab. But he wasn’t running anymore. If he wanted this apartment to become home, he needed to trust in that. Bucky put them in the drawer. After a moment, he took them out and placed them on the shelf. Just in case. 

The knives and guns he took and put in different locations around the apartment. The guns (loaded, but the first clip empty) went in his dresser, the small chest of drawers by the front door, and under the coffee table. He’d learned the hard way not to keep a gun beneath his pillow. 

Knives, on the other hand, were a different story. He couldn’t sleep unless he knew he had a weapon close. Two others went around the apartment. One beneath the coffee table beside the gun, and one under the kitchen counter. The fourth, his favorite (a Bundeswehr Advanced Combat Knife in black), always stayed on his person. There was never a time when he wasn’t armed. Not only did it now go against his nature, but he’d been taught to fear the moments he didn’t have protection. If he’d disobeyed one too many times as the Soldier, his handler had deactivated his arm, stripped him of all his weapons, and beat him until he’d been nearly unconscious. 

His knuckles went white around the handle as he fought back a barrage of memory. He rolled his left shoulder to prove to himself he could still work it. When his arm did what he asked of it, Bucky took a shaky breath and set the empty box in his closet. All of that was in the past. It was over. They couldn’t hurt him anymore. 

The remaining photograph stared at him from where it sat face down on his desk. Right hand trembling, he reached out and picked it up. Almost as quickly, he dropped it and left the room. Three times he entered his room, picked up the frame, dropped it, and exited his room, searching desperately for something else he could do. Each time, the photograph pushed itself to the forefront of his mind, weighing heavier each time. 

For the fourth time, he picked it up. Disobeying every fiber of his being, he turned it over. 

Steve had his arm slung around Bucky’s shoulder. They were both laughing. July 4th, 1941. 

His stomach curled, sending streaks of electric panic through his limbs. Heat flooded his entire body. Loud buzzing filled his ears. Feeling like he was going to be sick, Bucky dropped the photo and rushed out of the room. The bathroom was right across the hall. He closed the door and stood in front of the mirror. His grip on the counter was the only thing that kept him on his feet. When he could draw breath, it was shaky. His mouth was dry.

That photo was the one possession he wanted to get rid of but couldn’t. He’d tried on multiple occasions. One time, he’d gotten as far as putting it in the trash, but had woken up in a cold sweat and pulled it out. It hurt him to look at it, but it was the only thing he had left of Steve. 

He splashed cold water on his face. Try as he might to forget, the day Steve had left was one of the only days he could remember with extreme clarity. 

After Steve walked away, Bucky had walked the streets for hours in the pouring rain, trying to wrap his head around what had happened, trying to come to terms with what he was. When he’d gotten home, the apartment was empty. He’d sat at the table for hours, staring at the scratched and paint-stained wood, hoping that Steve would walk through the door. He’d sat trying to convince himself that if they were just able to talk, things would be able to be okay. Because they’d fought before. They’d said things, terrible things, that couldn’t be denied as truth. On multiple occasions, Bucky had been the one to walk away. But when he’d come home, Steve had been sitting at the table, and they’d talked. And they’d been okay. 

But nothing had ever been as bad as that day. Steve had put his heart and safety on the line. He’d trusted Bucky in a world that would’ve had no greater pleasure than to destroy him. And rather than be brave and tell Steve he’d felt the same for years, Bucky had acted the ass. Not only had he told Steve that he didn’t want to love him, but that he couldn’t. He’d told Steve that his disabilities were too much for him. 

Bucky couldn’t blame Steve for never forgiving him, because Bucky had never forgiven himself. 

He would be lying if he tried to tell himself he didn’t come back to Brooklyn for the small chance that Steve would be here. If he could just apologize for that day and thank him for helping him find himself again after D.C., then maybe he’d be able to put his entire past behind him and just start new. And while Bucky didn’t know who he was without Steve, he didn’t know who he was by himself either. 

And who knew. If he apologized, if they were able to talk the way they’ve always been able to talk, maybe they could move past that day. At the very least, maybe he would be able to look at the photo and remember it with fondness rather than unspeakable guilt.

The next couple of days, Bucky was in and out of the apartment, relearning the area through its number of shops and delis. He was surprised at how much of it had stayed the same. _Cherry Street Deli_ had been his and Steve’s favorite lunch stop when they’d had a few coins to spend. When he’d walked through the doors, Bucky could almost believe he was back in the 30s. He’d almost looked behind him to see if Steve was following. 

When he wasn’t out, he was cleaning or decorating. He was surprised at how little it took to make the apartment feel like a home rather than just a place. There hadn’t been a point in Romania—he’d known he wasn’t going to stay—but even so, he’d tried a little bit. Found a small couch on the side of the road and dragged it up the stairs. Placed it in a way that it would be useful if he ever needed to fight and run. Everything in that apartment had had a purpose. 

This apartment was going to be different. This apartment was going to be a home first rather than as an afterthought. The first thing he’d purchased for himself was sheets and a comforter. They were bright yellow. He still hadn’t slept. He was dreading the moment he would have to. 

Bucky also purchased everything he needed to have a functional kitchen. Growing up in a Jewish household, food had always played an important role in his life. While he wasn’t the best cook, his ma had made sure he knew his way around the kitchen. Plus, the oldest of three siblings, he’d been the one to help her. And while he’d never been as religious as his ma, especially now, food was still a source of comfort. 

He heaved the heavy bags of groceries onto the counter. If he wasn’t a genetically enhanced Super Soldier with a metal arm that could lift obscene weights without problem, hauling groceries up the stairs every week would be a pain in the ass. Although, if he wasn’t a genetically enhanced Super Soldier, he wouldn’t eat as much. Well, actually, he’d be dead. And while there were some days he might prefer that to the memories, today was not one of those days. This was the day he was going to see if he remembered how to make his ma’s matzah ball soup. And if he didn’t, well, he tried. Take out was always an option. 

When he’d been relearning the city, he’d found an old record store. If it had existed when he was a kid, Bucky had forgotten about it. He’d left the store with a turntable and a handful of old records. They now resided on the bookshelf he’d taken from the top of his desk and placed in the living room. Eventually, he’d get something better, but it worked for now. Music of Duke Ellington filling his apartment, he mixed his dough and put it in the refrigerator to rest before moving onto chopping his vegetables for soup.

This was always his favorite part of helping in the kitchen. The methodical sound of vegetables being cut soothed him probably more than it should’ve. He’d always tried to make everything the exact same size. If it took longer, so be it. With the soft jazz in the background and the open windows letting in the chatter of the borough, it was almost possible to believe that he was back home and his ma had just stepped out of the kitchen to remind Becca of something. He hummed clumsily and tipped the chopped celery and carrots into a bowl before moving onto the onion. 

For the rest of his life, Bucky’s main goal was to deceive. If anyone saw him, he wanted them to see a normal, happy man. Maybe a little sad on occasion because everyone had bad days, but overall happy. He didn’t want people to look at him and see his past. If his life became a game of charades, so be it. Because then maybe he could deceive himself. 

Hours later, when the soup had simmered not as long as it should have but he was too hungry to be patient, he ladled some into a bright yellow bowl and sat at the table. It wasn’t quite as good as his ma’s, but for a first pass, Bucky thought it was pretty good. 

He rubbed his eyes. They burned with tiredness. His entire body did. While he was used to this exhaustion, it never grew easier. And it was something he would live with his entire life. A small price to pay when the other option was dreaming. He wondered if he could go one more night. Five days was nothing compared to the eleven he’d been forced to endure in the early days of the Soldier. They’d wanted to test his limits. They’d only allowed him rest when the hallucinations became a threat. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to sleep. If he could without fearing what he’d be subjected to, everyone would be hard-pressed to get him out of bed.

He rolled a matzah ball onto his spoon and slurped it. Loudly. It was something his handlers would have punished him for. Any sound from him apart from compliance was worth punishment. It had taken him a long time to get over that fear. And he wasn’t, not completely. There were times he braced for the electric shock at the base of his neck, but it was rarer and rarer. Now he actively sought out things his handlers would hate. If there was something that would’ve gotten him punished, he did it. He couldn’t seem to help himself.

Bucky picked up his bowl and slurped the broth. Who cared if it wasn’t considered polite? It wasn’t like he would ever have table guests. Or, if he ever did, they would have to get used to it. It was just one of the ways he reminded himself that he was free. 

The bright dishware was another thing. Loud yellows, obnoxious greens, bright pinks. He didn’t have a singular favorite color anymore. If it was loud, he loved it. The more obnoxious the better. When he finally got a new wardrobe, his only goal was to confuse anyone and everyone that saw him. Don’t get him wrong, he still enjoyed the odd black ensemble, but he didn’t want it to be his only option. 

He rubbed his eyes again and sighed. He was just so damn tired. There was no way around it, he would have to sleep tonight. But it would be the first time in an apartment that felt like home. Maybe if he set a routine things wouldn’t have to get out of control. Tonight would be bad no matter what—there wasn’t any avoiding that—but maybe if he found a routine that convinced him he was safe, he could learn to sleep without fear. 

With nothing else, he picked up his bowl and walked into his kitchen. The first order of business would be to clean. One thing that wouldn’t change from his days as the Soldier was for his need for things to be neat. It was all about control. If things were messy, control was harder to find. And if he hadn’t been in control of the situation, if the mission went awry, he was punished. But now, cleanliness was one of the only facets in his life that he could control, and he needed something to hold onto. So, leftover soup in the fridge and hands deep in soapy water, he scrubbed the kitchen until it gleamed. 

He closed the living room windows and made sure the front door was locked. 

The shower he took was long and hot. He massaged the shampoo into his scalp and worked the conditioner through his hair. He lathered body wash until his entire body appeared to be made of scented bubbles. It was only when the water had started to run cold that he stepped out, wrapped a soft towel around his waist, and returned to his room to grab the old sweatpants and t-shirt he used as pajamas. 

He made sure the front door was locked. 

There was a string of lights around the ceiling of his bedroom. A push rug lay on the floor at the side of his bed. He’d painted the walls a light blue-grey that went well with the bright yellow of his comforter. It was the first room he’d ever had to himself, and he wanted it to be perfect. The next thing he wanted to find was artwork for the walls. If that took time, so be it. 

He made sure the front door was locked. 

Bucky got into bed, notebook on his lap. He cracked the window, allowing the patter of the rain that had just started to be easily heard. For a while, he just sat there, eyes closed, listening to the rain, the cool wind playing on his face. It was incredibly peaceful. When he realized a cup of tea would make this all the better, he crawled out of bed and made one. It was a blend that was supposed to help you sleep. 

He made sure the front door was locked. 

The rain had gotten harder by the time he returned to his room. He set his mug (it was shaped like a cat) on the windowsill, rearranged his pillows and opened his notebook. 

Bucky journaled diligently these days. It was the one place his thoughts were safe. Everything about the day was detailed; everything he did and saw, snatches of overheard conversations, places he wanted to remember, everything he’d felt. If he forgot, he wanted a way to remember. 

He wrote each entry like he was telling his day to his ma or Becca. Even when he was a kid, he told them everything, so it made everything seem that much more normal. But subconsciously, Bucky knew it made him be kinder to himself. They would never let him speak ill about himself, so he tried not to. He rarely wrote about his days as the Soldier. 

Today, he wrote about his adventure at the grocer's. The lane of trees on the sidewalk. The little girl he’d seen tugging on her mother’s skirt to point out the dog on the other side of the street. The two old men playing chess in the park, the hands not being used to move their pieces clasped together. How it felt to be back in the kitchen, trying to follow the heritage that had been turned against him. (Not wanting to talk about the Soldier, he didn’t spend a whole lot of time on that). 

By the time he finished writing, it was past midnight. He dawdled before closing the notebook thinking that if he never finished writing, he wouldn’t have to sleep. But even as he thought that he felt his exhaustion intensify. Bucky didn’t know if it was the tea or his body forcing him to sleep. Probably the latter. Too tired to be properly apprehensive, he set his notebook on his new nightstand, fumbled for the lights, and slumped down. 

He woke three hours later, throat raw, his tears indistinguishable from sweat. He didn’t know how long it took him to control his breathing, to realize that the noise in the background was the muted sound of the city and not his chair. Bucky slumped against the wall, letting the night wind play on his hot and sweaty face. 

“Are you okay?” 

It took Bucky a moment to realize the voice was coming from the other side of the wall. And without knowing why (maybe because it was the first time in seventy years he’d been asked if he was okay), Bucky answered. 

“I will be.” After a moment, he added: “Did I wake you?” 

“Nah, I just got back in. My job keeps me late sometimes.”

Bucky sighed in relief. He hadn’t thought about the layout of the apartment next to him when he’d bought this one. If he’d known the walls were this thin, he would’ve looked elsewhere. 

“I get them too,” the voice told him. “Nightmares I mean.” 

The wall distorted it, but Bucky could tell his neighbor was a middle-aged male. Late 20s, maybe early 30s. Technically, Bucky was too. There was always a sharp jolt in his stomach when he realized that. Despite enduring a century, he’d only truly lived a handful of years. 

“What’s your job?” 

There was a pause before his neighbor answered. “I’m a soldier.” 

Bucky blinked. For some reason, that was the last thing he expected. But if he had to wake anyone with his screams, he was glad it was someone who understood. 

“What branch?” 

He took another moment. “Special Ops. My team and I go where we’re needed.” 

“I was a soldier, too. Sniper. Just got out.” Bucky didn’t know why he was still talking. He guessed it was because it made him forget about the horror of his dream. It had been particularly bad. 

“You want to talk about it?”

“My nightmare or the war?”

“Aren’t they the same?”

Bucky frowned at the question, head still against the window. His sweat had dried and he was cold now, but he didn’t move. 

“I don’t mean to push,” his neighbor said a few minutes later after Bucky hadn’t said anything. Bucky imagined him sitting on his bed, head resting against the wall. “I just know it helps me to talk about them. Helps me realize they aren’t real. But that’s just me.” 

Bucky had never had the option of telling anyone before. He didn’t explore them in his journal. They weren’t anything he wanted his ma or sister to know. And they wouldn’t understand. 

“My entire unit was captured,” Bucky finally started. “All of them apart from me were used as labor.” 

He stopped to take a breath, realizing this was the first time he’d ever told anyone this. It was both easier and harder than he expected. If he could see his neighbor’s face, he wondered if he’d be able to continue. There was only silence as Bucky struggled for words.

“I was taken for experimentation. They were trying to perfect some drug and needed someone to test it on. To this day, I don’t know how I’m still alive.” 

Bucky thought he heard his neighbor make a small noise, but couldn’t be sure. His voice seemed strangely tight when he next spoke. “So they’re standing over you when you dream?” 

Bucky shook his head and it took a moment to remember his neighbor wouldn’t be able to see it. “If it were just that, it would be fine because I’ve already lived it. I know the pain and what to expect.” 

“So who is?” 

It was not lost on Bucky that his neighbor knew exactly what to ask. The normal panic washed through him when he thought about Steve. He considered saying the name—it would mean nothing to his neighbor—but he couldn’t. 

“My best friend. The first person I ever loved.” 

“Do they know?” 

“About my nightmares or my feelings?” Either way, the answer was no. He never had told Steve. 

“Both, I guess.” 

“Things didn’t exactly go well when he told me the way he felt. We haven’t spoken since before the war. I want to reach back out, but...” 

Bucky didn’t know why he was telling all of this to a complete stranger. He just knew it was easier than writing about it. He’d tried, but had never managed to write Steve’s name. 

“You should. Even if things ended badly between you, you should let him know that you made it home.” 

“The last thing he said to me was that he never wanted to see me again. For all I know, he was happy that I went to war.” 

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“You didn’t see his face,” Bucky told him. The picture of Steve leaning over him with a syringe and a cold smile was replaced by the look of absolute disgust that Steve had worn when turning his back. 

“No, but I just know I wouldn’t put the horror of war on anyone I know, even if we have our differences.” 

They sat in silence for a while. Bucky still leaned against the window, exhaustion weighing back down on him now that his dream had started to fade. His neighbor had been right—talking about it had helped. It was absurd to think that Steve stood over him when he hadn’t seen him since D.C. 

The silence grew so long that Bucky assumed his neighbor had fallen asleep. He didn’t blame him. If he’d just gotten home from a mission, who knew how long he’d been away from home and how much sleep he’d been able to get. He had to be exhausted. A wave of guilt crashed over him at the thought of keeping him awake. But Bucky also felt strangely lonely. He hadn’t spoken to anyone like that in over seventy years, and he hadn’t realized how much he missed it. 

And then he heard his neighbor’s voice again. Except this time he wasn’t speaking English. And he wasn’t speaking; he was singing. Without warning, a memory of Sarah Rogers singing in Irish claimed his mind. He’d been staying over and Steve hadn’t been able to sleep. With her soft voice and the lilting music of the unfamiliar language, Bucky had been asleep the fastest he’d ever been. 

Bucky didn’t know if his neighbor was singing the same song, and he definitely didn’t have the voice of Sarah Rogers—no one would ever come close to the beauty of it—but it had the same effect. Irish was one of the only languages the Soldier (and subsequently Bucky) hadn’t learned. All he heard was music. 

And before he knew anything else, he was asleep. If he dreamed, he didn’t remember them come sunrise. 

***

Steve lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He didn’t know what had compelled him to sing the lullaby. All he knew was that he wanted to give his neighbor a small piece of comfort. When he’d been little and woken from a bad dream, his ma had always sat on the edge of his bed and sang him lullabies from Ireland. And while she didn’t give him a voice worth mentioning, she did give him the language. 

He didn’t speak it as often as he used to. After his ma had died, it brought too much grief. He’d forgotten how much of a comfort it was to feel the words curl in his mouth. Maybe it was time to start again. 

Steve sighed and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, exhausted beyond all measure but still too wound up to sleep. He’d just gotten back from a mission that had gone sour incredibly fast. Clint had taken two bullets ten minutes into the raid, leaving Natasha to make sure he made it back to the jet without bleeding out. And it had been for nothing; the facility that had been told to house a majority of Hydra’s weapons had been empty apart from a few well hidden cronies. Which meant two things: either they had a leak, or had purposely been fed wrong information to give Hydra time to move. Either way, it was a headache that was entirely on Steve’s shoulders. 

Coming home to hear his neighbor cry out in panic and fear had been a welcome distraction. It had been nothing to sit with his back against the wall and talk. 

His phone chimed. With a groan, he groped blindly around his nightstand until he found it. After the darkness of his room, the light blinded him. When he saw the series of texts, he groaned again. 

> ADDISON [3:42 AM]: Everyone else just returned to the tower, where are you? 
> 
> ADDISON [3:45 AM]: Steve? 
> 
> ADDISON [3:51 AM]: Just let me know where you are
> 
> ADDISON [4:02 AM]: Babe? You’re worrying me

Steve stared at the screen for a few moments before replying. 

> ME [4:04 AM]: I’m at the apartment. Wanted to be alone for a bit to decompress
> 
> ADDISON [4:04 AM]: Everything okay? 
> 
> ME [4:05 AM]: Just tired. I'll be at the tower later, I promise
> 
> ADDISON [4:05 AM]: Get some sleep. I love you 
> 
> ME [4:08 AM]: Love you too 

Steve set the phone back on the nightstand. He’d run into Addison, literally run into her, three years ago. He’d been in the park looking for a good place to set up and sketch and hadn’t been paying attention to where he’d been walking. After a year of close friendship, he’d finally asked her out. 

It was nice to have someone worry about him when he went out on missions. Knowing he had someone back home kept his actions in check, kept him from being as reckless as he was when he’d first come out of the ice. And she was a good match. A grad student at NYU’s studio art program, she was the one who encouraged him to sell his art. 

And he did love her. Everyone who saw them together couldn’t help but comment on the doe-eyed look he had when looking at her; Natasha loved to tease him about it. But there were times, especially after missions, when he just needed to be alone. It was the one thing they argued about. And he understood where she was coming from: if it was the other way around and she was the one going out risking her life leaving him alone with no contact for various amounts of time, he would want her back in his arms as soon as she got home. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. It was just that his nightmares were always particularly violent the night after a mission. He didn’t want to hurt her again. 

Tomorrow they’d spend the day together. Curl up on the couch in the screening room and watch Disney movies. Well, watch was the wrong word. Steve would fall asleep after the first (which was always Robin Hood because it was his favorite). He didn’t quite understand it, but his naps were always nightmare free. If they were able to plague him at night, his days were free. 

He scrubbed his hands over his face again. What he really needed was a shower. They’d spent a week in the woods of Northern Canada, Tony and Sam flying stealth missions to learn the layout of the building. He’d been disgusting by the first night. While protective, his suit didn’t exactly breathe. 

The only reason he’d sat on his bed in the first place was to take off his shoes. If he hadn’t asked if his neighbor was okay, or if his neighbor hadn’t answered, he would’ve stripped his clothes and stood under the shower for way longer than was necessary. But they had talked. And there was something about the voice that was familiar, that struck an image of old streets and the sense of home. It was probably just the hint of a Brooklyn accent that undercut his words.

Another wall of exhaustion crashed over dragging his eyes closed. He would shower in the morning. If it were all on account of his body, he’d have been asleep ages ago. His mind, on the other hand, was a different story. He groped for his phone again, opening his eyes only as wide as necessary to see the screen. It had been a long time since he’d needed this, but after the homesickness for the Brooklyn he’d grown up in that had come from their conversation, he knew it was the only thing that would work. Soft Gaelic filling the silent room, his mind finally quieted and he fell asleep. 

In his dreams, he ran through the old streets of Brooklyn, chasing the voice of his neighbor. When he finally woke, he was crying.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you have to fall before you can walk

Three weeks had passed since Bucky moved into the apartment, and three significant things had happened. First, his apartment was now home to a handful of different plants (mostly cacti and succulents, but he’d purchased a fiddle fig tree to take up an empty corner in the living room). Second, he’d found a part time job at _Cherry Street Deli_ , giving his days a bit more structure and providing an income to supplement his newfound desire for the finer things in life. Third, he’d run into an old face he’d never expected to see again. Natalia Alianovna Romanova. Or, as she went by now, Natasha. 

It had taken a moment to recognize her. Her hair was short now, not the long curls she’d worn in the Red Room. It was her eyes that he remembered. Dark green with a hint of blue. Sharp and calculating. When she’d set her sandwich and pasta salad down on the counter for purchase and given him a small smirk as she handed over cash, that was when he’d remembered.

For some reason, he’d asked if she would want to get lunch. For some reason, she had accepted the invitation. It was why he was now sitting on the patio of a small cafe she had suggested. She hadn’t arrived yet, but then again, he had come a half-hour early. A coffee and small muffin sat in front of him. Well, the muffin was gone. The coffee was on its third refill. Though stone cold now, he took another drink, forcing himself to focus on the cold dregs as they caught the back of his throat. He needed the tactile to keep his mind on the focus at hand rather than the distant past he could do nothing to change. 

At ten minutes past their scheduled meeting time, Bucky’s stomach started to twist. He looked at his watch, making sure he hadn’t come earlier than he’d thought. He hadn’t. Bucky didn’t know why he was as affected by her lateness as he was. But that was a lie. He wanted to apologize. Since seeing her a few days ago, all he’d been able to think about was the Red Room. 

He was about to get up and leave—he’d actually pulled out his wallet to leave a bill on the table—when she slid into the chair opposite him. She wore a pair of sleek sunglasses and a stylish tan jacket. Bucky wondered how many weapons she had hidden beneath it. If he’d taught her anything, it was that being unarmed was a lethal mistake. 

“You’re late.” It slipped out of his mouth before he could stop himself. A remnant from when she’d been his pupil. 

“I don’t take orders from you.” 

“Then why’d you come?” 

She pushed her sunglasses up and dragged her gaze up and down his body. Bucky self-consciously pulled down his left sleeve. He didn’t know why he thought wearing a pink sweater had been a good idea. It would just make it look like he was trying too hard. 

“Frankly, I was curious. The Winter Soldier wearing a sweater is something I’d never thought I’d see.” She brought her glass of water up to her lips and took a sip, her gaze never once leaving his. Bucky knew it was a battle of will. He looked down at the table almost immediately. His days of battles were over. 

“Please don’t call me that,” he said quietly. “It’s never who I wanted to be.” 

Her rigid posture relaxed slightly. She leaned back in her chair. It was a way to make him feel more comfortable in sharing the information she wanted, he knew that. Bucky couldn’t tell if she’d blinked once since sitting down. Her glass tilted in her hands, the liquid sloshing towards her but never reaching the edge. 

“Who do you want to be?” 

“I’m still trying to figure that one out,” Bucky replied truthfully. He knew it wasn’t worth attempting to lie to her, not when he was the one to teach her how to catch someone at it.

“What are you doing here?” The question wasn’t asked unkindly, but the words were sharp. An accusation without being an accusation. 

“Trying to start over.” 

“Why do you think you get that chance?” 

The words cut him to the quick. He thought them to himself almost every morning; whenever he felt even a sliver of happiness, it was quickly tempered by the stinging cold of guilt. “I know what I’ve done.” 

“But do you know what your training has made me do?” 

It would’ve almost been better if there had been any emotion in her voice. He didn’t know why he’d thought this was a good idea. 

“Natalia, I-” 

“You don’t get to say my name,” she whispered, lips thin and words dangerous. 

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For a lot of things.” 

When she didn’t say anything else, he nodded to himself (a small deprecating thing), left a twenty on the table and stood. He was turning away when she spoke again. 

“Have you talked to Steve at all?” 

Bucky didn’t know how long it took him to sit back down. It might have been a second, or it could have taken a year. Her expression was perfectly blank. Of course she knew. He'd taught her to learn everything possible. It didn't occur to him until later that Steve had been the one to tell her. 

“I haven’t talked to Steve since 1943.”

Well, Steve hadn’t talked to him since 1943. Bucky had tried. Steve had ignored him. What he had said to Bucky was short and to the point, to make sure that he was alive and able to walk. 

“Are you planning on it?” 

Bucky shrugged. “I’m just trying to make it to the end of each day. If we run into each other, then it happens.” He wasn’t going to say he’d thought about passing by the Avengers Tower in order to maybe expedite that process. He didn’t even know what he’d do if he did see Steve. Leave, probably. 

Bucky had joined the war shortly after that disastrous day of the kiss. It felt wrong to say he was happy when Pearl Harbor was bombed, but it had given the excuse he needed. How could he sit at home watching his neighbors offer their lives and not do the same? He had fully expected to die overseas. Not that he’d wanted to, of course, but what did he have to live for back home? The only thing he’d regretted was not getting to say goodbye to Steve. He’d tried. Steve hadn’t opened the door. 

When Steve had rescued him in Azzano, Bucky had first thought it was another hallucination, that he was seeing the thing he most wanted, that they had finally succeeded in breaking him. Even now, a part of him believed it wasn’t real. After all, Steve had been tiny when he left. That part of him never offered a solution on how he’d escaped that tiny room with the windows that had given him just the barest glance of freedom; enough to know that it existed. 

He’d been given medical leave soon after he’d returned to camp. He was pretty sure Steve had been the one to get it for him; Bucky had seen him leave the Colonel's tent before being called in and offered the ticket home. He didn’t think he was going to take it until the night before the train was scheduled to leave. They’d been in a bar. Steve sitting and laughing with the group that became known as the Howlies. Bucky sitting alone, letting the hard liquor quell the pain of seeing Steve so happy with people that weren’t him and the tremendous guilt that brought. He wouldn’t realize he was staring until Steve caught his gaze and his expression changed from laughter to longing and disgust. Bucky didn’t know how much he drank that night, but he knew it had taken way too many glasses of whiskey to finally get drunk. 

When the bomb destroyed the track the next day, sending him and hundreds more soldiers to their death, he’d accepted it. He’d closed his eyes while falling. At least that time, he’d said his goodbyes. 

“Can I give you some advice?” Natasha asked, continuing on without waiting for his response. “Don’t spend your days hoping. Just figure out your new life and live it. Steve has. He’s got a good thing going, he’s happy again. Don’t be the one to fuck that up.” 

“I’m not going to move, if that’s what you’re saying.” He couldn’t, not anymore, not when the apartment finally felt safe. He only had to check the lock five times before going to bed. 

“Tread carefully. That’s what I’m saying. You know what I’m capable of.” 

Bucky blinked and she was gone. 

If someone were to ask him how he came to be on a street half-shaded by trees and filled with vendors and looking at fruit, he wouldn’t be able to say. The hour since he’d left the cafe was a complete blur. The first time this had happened after rediscovering himself, it had terrified him. Now, just as nightmares were part of his evenings and migraines were becoming part of his mornings, lost hours were just a part of his life. He’d learned how to disguise his disorientation when awareness returned to him. A lot of times, like now, he was in the middle of a conversation. 

It intrigued him how a body could continue living while its mind was lost elsewhere. 

“I love your sweater, by the way,” the young woman was saying as she handed him the bag of plums he didn’t remember picking out. She wore her short hair in two buns on the top of her head. “I feel like there’s way too many men who shy away from pink because they think it’ll make them appear masculine. It looks really good on you.” 

“Thanks,” Bucky said, because he didn’t know what else to say. And then, gesturing to the street, “how often is this here?” 

“Every week in the summer,” she answered. “You new in town?” 

“Not exactly, but kinda.” 

If she found his answer to be strange, she made no indication of it. She just gave him one last smile and looked to the man beside Bucky. Realizing he was in the way, he put his bag around his wrist and continued on. 

It was exactly the afternoon he hadn’t known he’d needed. A breeze rustled the branches of the trees, sending the sweet smell of fresh produce, flowers, and the general sound of life down the street. The sun was warm on the back of his neck. A trickle of sweat rolled down between his shoulders (maybe a sweater in the heat of late June hadn’t been the best idea) and he reveled in it. He was here, and he was alive. And if this was where his body instinctively brought him when he was in a dissociative haze, maybe things would be okay. 

By the time he reached the small tent displaying the small sketches, he was laden with multiple bags. Bucky would have to be careful: if he came here every week (which he planned to because he loved it), he would need to be sure there was only so much money in his wallet. As it was, he’d purchased a couple cartons each of strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, and blackberries, a jar of fresh honey, a loaf of bread, and a bouquet of flowers (sunflowers, lavender, and a white flower Bucky was unsure of). If he’d been able to get to the vendor before he closed, Bucky also would’ve added a bag of potatoes, zucchini and yellow squash. He didn’t regret anything. 

The artist’s tent was tucked between another flower stand and an old, magnificent tree. All it took was one look at the pencil sketches to know he would be going home with one. He’d been waiting for the perfect thing to place on the wall in his room, and this was it. He gave a quick smile to the woman sitting at the front and slowly took a turn around, staring at everything. 

Ranging from messy line sketches to complex shading or stippling, each drawing showcased a different area of Brooklyn. Old Brooklyn. These were buildings and scenes he remembered with an aching clarity. 

It was the one that was tucked away in the corner as if the artist wanted to hide it that held his attention. A quick line sketch of the Brooklyn Bridge. Messy yet refined. It felt like an old friend, like something he’d forgotten and was now remembering. Shuffling his load slightly so he could pick it up, he walked up to the woman and placed it on the table. She closed her book, carefully marking her page, and set it to the side. When she saw the one he'd picked, she laughed softly to herself, as if she were in on a joke.

“Do you want this framed?” she asked. There was a pleasant sound to her voice, just the softest hint of a Brooklyn accent. 

“That would be great, thank you.” 

She grabbed the print, still laughing to herself, and disappeared to the back of the tent. Bucky snuck a quick look at the book she left. _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_. By the worn look of the cover, it was well-loved. 

“Are you the artist?” he asked, turning once more to look at the prints surrounding him. 

“I wish,” she said, coming back with the print in a plain yet sturdy-looking black frame. “But it’s my boyfriend that’s the talent here.”

“It’s beautiful.” 

“I’ll let him know you think so when he comes back.” 

Bucky handed over the amount she requested and somehow managed to situate all his purchases without spilling or crushing anything. He was definitely bringing a backpack next week. Because he was coming back. He wanted to meet the man who’d recreated the streets of his childhood. 

It was only when he got home and placed the frame in his room for hanging that he noticed the signature. Three small letters that drove the breath from him and sent the world spinning. 

_SGR_. 

***

Steve returned to their stall, slipping in through the back as to avoid the crowd of the street, just in time to see the man disappear, arms laden with bags, frame under his arm. The man turned to briefly look at the flowers, giving Steve just the barest glance of his face beneath his hat. His mouth went dry. But it couldn’t be. Natasha had been keeping tabs on him for Steve and she’d said nothing. 

“You okay, babe?”

A soft hand brushed his forearm, jolting him from the panic that had consumed him after the glance. He stared out at the crowd for a moment longer (pointlessly, the man was lost in the sea of people, if he was even still there) before sitting in the chair he’d vacated ten minutes earlier. 

“I’m okay.” 

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Addison told him, her brows furrowed just slightly. 

“I just thought I recognized someone, but it’s impossible.” It was impossible because Bucky was gone. And it was for the best. 

“You’re never going to believe which one sold.” Her look of worry was gone, dispelled by the carefully assured voice Natasha fondly called his _Captain Dad_ tone. It was both a curse and a blessing. But there was no point in bringing up the past. Not when it had happened seventy-five years ago. 

“Hmmm?”

A wide grin stretched across her face, her green eyes sparkling. And just like that, Steve settled. The past was gone. This was his future, and he was happy with it. 

“The line sketch you said was trash.” She poked his chest. “You, sir, owe me twenty.” 

“You’re joking.” 

She shook her head, her glee at proving him wrong addictive. “Go look for yourself.” 

And because he just couldn’t believe that someone would want to spend money on that, he did. He’d partially hidden it on purpose. There was a method to it, he’d thought. If someone found it, it meant they enjoyed his work so much they looked through everything. And if they liked the line sketch, something that had just been practice before the canvas, Steve knew they would be friends. As much as he tried to pretend he hated the sketch, it was his favorite. It reminded him of the simpler times. There was a simple honesty to it that hadn’t made it to the final product. 

Sure enough, it was gone. Purchased by the stranger who tore at the careful stitches of his heart. He didn’t know if he wanted it to be Bucky. If it was, he didn’t know how he was meant to feel about it. He was the reason Steve had needed to stitch his heart in the first place, the reason it had taken him a full year to finally ask Addison out, despite the feelings he’d known he had. But if it wasn’t Bucky, he was doing this to himself for nothing. Once again, he found himself caught in the fine line of torturing himself without knowing if there was probable cause. 

Steve closed his eyes and remembered what his therapist told him to do when his thoughts turned to things out of his control. Find one thing in his immediate vicinity that he knew was real, that he could control, and hold onto that. So he went back to Addison, taking one of her hands in his. 

“How ‘bout we pack up early and do something tonight, just us,” he said quietly. It was something he’d been meaning to do for a while, but things always seemed to come up. He needed a night where he wasn’t Captain America. He needed to just be Steve. 

“I’d like that.” 

Steve kissed her softly. Working side by side, they took down the sketches hanging from the tent and packed them away carefully. Taking the tent down was quick. With everything in the back of the car, he got into the driver’s seat, threaded his fingers through Addison’s, and let his unconscious direct him to where he wanted to go, leaving his uncertainties of the stranger in the now empty lot of grass. 

They walked down the pier, fingers loosely threaded. The sun had just begun to set, setting the sky aflame with bursts of color. It would be wonderful to paint, the rich pinks and oranges, the line of blue still hugging the horizon, the cream clouds ringed with purple. Not needing to do practice sketches beforehand would be freeing. He could just sit down and let the colors find their way. There was no need to worry when doing a skyscape. 

“You’re quiet tonight. You sure you’re okay?” Addison tugged lightly on his fingers. drawing his attention back. He hadn’t even realized he’d been in his head until she’d done so. 

“I’m fine.” 

Addison stopped walking. “That’s what you say when you’re not, Steve.” 

Steve walked on, stopping at the railing and staring out. He curled his fingers around the metal, watching as his knuckles turned white. The soft grunting from the seals basking on the warm rocks beneath him held his attention after. Addison joined him, letting their shoulders brush. 

“Is it your dreams?” she asked softly. 

He should’ve been happy for the out she was offering. It would be easy to blame the restless nightmares where he wandered in the pitch darkness without direction, hearing the cries for help from people he knew were impossible to help. 

“You need to talk to me, Steve.” 

Steve sighed and looked away from the water, looking instead at the beautiful woman beside him. She’d changed into a yellow dress for the evening, and her hair was down, framing her face with short brown curls. He would do anything to return to the days where just seeing her was enough to calm his racing thoughts. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that-” he sighed, rubbing his face. He was exhausted. “I want it to be nothing, I’m sure it _is_ nothing.” 

“So telling me would make it live longer than you want it to.” 

He nodded. 

“But Steve, if it’s bothering you this much, isn’t it going to live anyway?” She took his hand. He went back to staring out at the water. 

“I just don’t want you to think-” he stopped, not sure what he was afraid of exactly. “I thought I saw someone from my past today. Someone I had history with. We didn’t end well. We haven’t seen each other in a while. It brought back a lot.”

He didn’t want to say it was the person who’d purchased the line sketch because he didn’t want the details she could provide. Details made it real. This nebulous space he lived in now was dangerous, yes, but not knowing felt easier somehow. He didn’t want to face the implications of Bucky actually being back. The anger. The guilt. The confusion. The feelings that were still there despite him wishing otherwise.

It was his fault that Bucky fell. They’d gotten word of a plot to sabotage the train bringing their wounded soldiers away from the frontlines. Steve and the Howlies had been charged with sweeping for explosives. They’d missed one. He’d carried the guilt of his fatal mistake ever since. 

Addison didn’t know about Bucky. Sam knew that they had history, but not what it was. Only Natasha knew everything. She’d been the one to find him the night after the highway fight in D.C., when the Soldier’s mask had fallen. Surrounded by bottles of whiskey that did nothing for him, he’d told her everything. If anything had surprised her, she’d kept it well hidden. 

“Running into ex’s is hard,” she murmured. 

“I don’t even know if it was him. I don’t know if all this panic is worth anything.” 

“Even if it was him, Steve, it’s your past. You can’t change what happens.” 

“I know.” 

The sun was now half concealed by the horizon. He breathed out. The conversation hadn’t made him feel better, but the weight on his chest had shifted slightly. 

“I didn’t ruin tonight, did I?” he asked. 

She studied him in mock contemplation. “Not if you buy me ice-cream and let me choose the movie.” 

“Oh, now that’s a dangerous thing for me to agree to.” He broke into a true smile for the first time that evening. 

“Indeed.” She grinned wickedly. “You never know if I’ll order a double scoop of cookie dough and refuse to let you share.” 

“That’s a capital offense,” he warned and her grin widened. “There would be consequences. Grave.”

She winked and danced away, but not fast enough to avoid his arms. He wrapped them around her waist and pulled her, giggling, against his chest. This was real. This was important. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. 

“Anytime.” She pulled away just enough to raise herself on her tiptoes and close the gap between their lips. 

She did end up ordering a double scoop of cookie dough and refusing him a bite. It was only when he stopped trying to steal, forcing her to hold it at arm’s reach, that she allowed him a bite. By that time, there were only a few bites left. 

His mind was considerably less cluttered and lighter when they returned to the Tower. He nodded to Archie, his favorite night shift guard, as they crossed to the elevator. The soft, lilting voice of FRIDAY greeted them when the doors closed, and he pressed the button for the private floors. When they opened to show the common space empty, he nearly sighed in relief. A minute later, they were secluded in his wing. 

They watched _Robin Hood_ that night, but Steve spent most of the movie playing with Addison’s hair, forcing himself to stay focused on his life right now. He was happy. He was happy. He wished he believed that. 

-

When Addison was sure Steve was asleep, she pushed back the covers and crept from the room. The common room was still empty, but there was evidence that someone had used it in the time they’d been home. A few beer bottles and empty bags of chips littered the coffee table. If Tony saw them in the morning, he’d be pissed (unless, of course, he was the one who’d left them). 

As she suspected, the redhead was still awake. Dressed in tight black leggings and fitted tank top, she contorted herself in a series of complex poses without any apparent difficulty. 

“Are you just going to stand there, or do you have something you need?” 

Addison slowly walked into Natasha’s room and sat on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around herself. Despite her being Steve’s best friend, Addison had never really felt comfortable around the woman. Her cold, impassive manner didn’t sit well with her. But she needed information, and Natasha would have it. She always had it. 

“Is he back?” she asked without preamble. She knew Natasha didn’t need any. 

“Sam? Yeah, he got in about twenty minutes after you two.” 

“Don’t bullshit me, Natasha. Barnes. Is he back?” 

With the same lethality as a viper, Natasha uncoiled herself from her pose and stalked forward. “How do you know about him?” There was a dangerous note to her voice. 

“Nevermind how I know. Is he back?” She tried to match Natasha’s tone to convey that she wasn’t going to back down without an answer. If Steve’s past was stalking him, threatening to upset the careful balance they’d finally been able to achieve, she needed to know. She refused to shift her gaze as Natasha studied her. She was waiting to see if Addison would crack. She wouldn’t; not when it came to protecting Steve. 

“No.” Natasha finally said. “And if he was, Steve would be the first to know, not you.”

Addison’s shoulders collapsed forward with relief. The man that had purchased Steve’s sketch was just that. 

“How much do you know?” Natasha asked. Her voice had lost the accusatory tone, though there was still a note of warning beneath her words. 

“Not a whole lot,” she admitted. “He talks in his sleep sometimes, so I just put things together the best I could. I don’t even know how much of what I know is true.” 

Natasha studied her again. “Let me give you a piece of advice. Don’t bring it up. Don’t make him relive that part of his life. Just stay as this little bubble Steve can come to and feel normal.” 

It was only when Addison was back in bed, listening to the quiet whimpers of the man beside her and preparing to wake him from whatever bad dream plagued him that night, that she realized she had no idea if Natasha was lying to her. 

***

Bucky laid on his bed, thoughts racing at blistering speed. How many times had he seen Steve sign his sketches with those three simple letters? How many times had he listened to the scratch of Steve’s pencil on the page as he recreated the streets around them? How hadn’t he realized some of the sketches surrounding him weren’t familiar because he’d known the streets, but because he’d been there when they’d been created?

All of this also meant that Steve had a girlfriend. It shouldn’t have come as a shock. Natasha had told him he’d moved on, that he was living his life. And why shouldn’t he be? What happened between them had happened over seventy years ago. Bucky couldn’t expect him to spend the rest of his life miserable, didn’t want him to spend the rest of his life miserable, because of something stupid Bucky had done out of fear. Bucky was happy for him. So why did his stomach curl uncomfortably every time he thought of Steve kissing her?

He stared up at the ceiling, watching the shadows change as cars drove down the street. Laughter entered his room through the open window. It amazed him that people could just live their life, happy and carefree, completely unaware that he, just hundreds of feet from them, struggled to hold his together. 

It was stupid, but Bucky wished he could talk to his neighbor. Since that first night, they’d had three more conversations. They talked about random things—how the interiors of cars almost always seemed to tell you exactly the personality of the person who owned it—as well as things that happened in their daily lives. Don’t ask him why he felt so comfortable sharing with a stranger because he didn’t know, but there was just something about his neighbor’s voice that elicited comfort. And right now, Bucky wanted to tell him how he’d unknowingly taken the first step to reaching out and get the reassurance he needed that it was okay. 

It wasn’t lost on Bucky the irony of being so completely sure of every decision in a life or death situation and yet stumbling through the regular motions of civilian life. Unsure and clumsy, he questioned most things he did. So just like the Soldier had craved heated, Bucky craved reassurance. But like it had been for the past week, the room beyond his wall was silent. 

The street beneath his window had been quiet for three hours when his phone buzzed for the first time since he’d gotten it. Immediately wary, Bucky picked it up. A text from an unknown number stared up at him, searing in its accusation. 

UNKNOWN [2:47 AM]: 1st warning 

He shouldn’t be surprised that Natasha knew he’d bought Steve’s art, but the guilt started curdling his stomach again anyway. Punching his pillow into a position he hoped would keep him just uncomfortable enough to prevent him from sleeping. 

It didn’t matter. Nightmares were waiting. Filled with winding streets of unfinished sketches and the accusing echoes of his past, they dragged him down and crashed over him until he knew he would drown under their weight. 

When he woke up, voice raw and aching, hours or years later (he didn’t know or care), he knew with certainty he was going to do something stupid. He needed to talk to Steve. It was the only way he would be able to go on with his life and he owed that to the both of them. If Natasha killed him, well, at least he’d have said he was sorry. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. A few things from your tired, but very excited author:  
> \- My goal for future updates is at least every other week. I'm going to try a rotating schedule with my other fic, but since I can almost see the finish line with that one, that one is my priority.  
> -But fear not, since this is a new brainchild, my brain is going wild with ideas. Only a few nights ago, my brain did the annoying thing of trying to write without doing the physical act. Cue me writing a scene that won't occur for at least four chapters while more than half asleep at 1am. At least I got a few baller lines of dialogue.  
> -I guess what I'm saying that while I'm going to try to hold myself to a schedule, I can't promise anything. So thanks for reading.  
> -(Also, if you leave me ideas for things you'd want to see in a comment, there is a 100% chance that I will try to work them in and will inspire me to write faster, just saying...)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one said it would be easy

Repeating his plan over and over to himself was one of the ways he kept himself sane through those next six days of waiting. On Saturday, he would go back to the market and look at more of Steve’s art. If his girlfriend (Bucky’s stomach still twisted when he thought those words) was there again, he would just wait until Steve showed up. If she asked, he would say he wanted to talk to the artist and learn about his inspiration. It wasn't technically a lie.

All Bucky needed was a chance. Just a couple minutes to tell Steve that he’d been right; Bucky had been a coward. He’d been scared that he loved a man. And if Bucky was being honest with himself, he was still trying to come to terms with the fact that he was gay. A little late maybe considering he’d been alive for ninety some years, but it wasn’t like Hydra had given him the time to contemplate his sexuality. But he was trying. 

The week after moving into his apartment, he’d gone into a bookstore. Clutching the piece of paper on which he’d dutifully written down a couple titles to buy, he’d walked to the back of the store, to the section labeled LGBT Studies. He’d quickly found out that researching books on the computer was much more comfortable than actually being surrounded by the physical copies. More than slightly paranoid and checking often to make sure no one was watching him, it had taken him a long time to focus long enough to find the first title on his list. He’d been so exhausted after finding it that he fled the section and went to check out. The teenager checking him out barely glanced at the book. 

The entire interaction had made him both embarrassed and proud. Embarrassed because there had been no need for him to panic the way he had. Proud because he’d followed through on the mission. Sure, he’d been expecting to be confronted by a couple thugs the way he’d have been in the 30s, but he followed through. Now he just needed to take the time to read it. 

He was slowly but surely coming to the realization that this part of him was okay. If it hadn’t been carved out by Hydra who had done their best (and very nearly succeeded) in breaking him, nothing he could do could change it. So, maybe it would take a while for him to be comfortable with it, but he wasn’t going to try and force himself to be anything other than what he was. 

That thought was another talisman that burned hot, keeping the cold numbness of overwhelming fear at bay. His life was his own again. That was another reason he wanted to talk to Steve, to thank him for breaking through, for giving Bucky just enough to hold onto and pull himself out. Bucky wasn’t a fool enough to think that they’d be able to go back to how they’d been before; he’d grown used to the idea (unhappily) that Steve could still decide he didn’t want Bucky in his life. As much as that thought hurt, as long as Bucky was able to talk to Steve and say his piece, he knew he’d be able to move on and live his life. 

Another way Bucky kept himself sane throughout those six days was cooking. It was the first time he was glad for his incredibly high metabolism. It required him to cook a lot and often. That combination proved to be revelatory for him because he’d found something he loved to do. 

The large windows in his living room generated enough natural light that if he was prepping in the afternoon, he didn’t need to turn on the overhead fluorescents. There was something calming about chopping vegetables and marinating chicken while the open windows brought in the noise from the streets. He chuckled at something one of the panelists on his podcast said, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and continued measuring peanut butter for his sauce. 

It was Friday evening and Bucky had had an unusually good day. He’d slept the previous night, and while he dreams hadn’t been good, they’d been better than usual; he’d woken up feeling like he’d actually slept. At work, a young girl had told him she liked his sweater and had given him a hair tie to match. She’d told him that her mama always said it was important to keep hair out of your face when working. Bucky had immediately pulled his hair back and tied it with the mustard yellow band. 

His plan for the night was simple: shower, journal, and read. He was still debating if he would try to sleep. Currently, he slept every third night. It wasn’t sustainable, he knew that, but the sleepless nights were something he intimately knew; he didn’t know what his unconscious mind would do if it was given the chance. Maybe his dreams would get better, but the fear of a nightmare every night kept him from taking the chance. 

“Just take baby steps, Barnes,” he muttered to himself as he fluffed his rice and prepared his bowl of stir fry. 

Sleep would come when it did. For now, he just knew he should be happy for the moments of peace he did get. 

There was comfort in following the routine he’d created the first week he’d lived in the apartment. So, record player on, he cleaned the kitchen until it gleamed, showered until the water grew cold, and sat on his bed, journal on his lap. It was past ten when he stopped writing (these past days he’d filled pages, worrying about his situation with Steve and trying to work through his own feelings of accepting himself). He stared at his final paragraphs a minute longer, forcing himself to breathe deeply. 

_It’s hard to accept that one of the reasons I’m so scared of all of this is because of our household. Dad would’ve kicked me out. And as much as I want to believe you’d be different, the fact of the matter is I don’t know. I don’t know if you’d have stood by my side. If things had been different, if that train had led me home, I think I would’ve been able to keep all of this inside, hidden it. I think I would’ve been able to find a girl and settle down. But it didn’t._

_I’ve been given a second chance here. I don’t want to squander it by being the coward I was back in the 30s. So Ma, Becca, I have something to say: I’m Gay. Have been for as long as I can remember. I just hope that doesn’t change your thoughts of me. -_

Bucky had realized as he’d written those paragraphs that he’d never actually said the words out loud. Writing them had been harder than he’d expected. Even thinking them left him with a little thrill of anxiety. Swallowing his apprehension, he forced himself to say them. 

“I’m gay.” Bucky said the words with as much force as he could without yelling them. “My name is James Buchannan Barnes, I was born in 1917, I’m gay, and that’s okay.” 

He felt almost embarrassed for expecting something big to happen after he’d said them. There were no fireworks or explosions of glitter. He didn’t even feel particularly different. But there was, and maybe he was imagining it, a tiny piece of pride where guilt had previously resided. 

It was on the heels of that moment that he finally picked up the book from his nightstand. _The Book of Pride: LGBTQ Heroes Who Changed the World._ So engrossed was he from page one that he didn’t realize it was past midnight until a noise from the other side of the wall had him looking up. The soft knock came again, this time followed by his neighbor’s voice. 

***

“Are you awake?” Steve asked quietly, feeling incredibly guilty that he was asking in the first place. He couldn’t always expect his neighbor to be there ready to listen to his problems, especially when he didn’t even know his name. 

“Yeah, I’m up.” There was the noise of springs groaning and Steve pictured him repositioning himself. “I don’t sleep much these days, nightmares, you know.” 

Steve did know. Intimately. “Yeah.” 

“So what’s up?” 

“What do you mean?” Steve didn’t know why he was stalling. After all, he was the one who’d started the conversation. 

“I mean, that from my experience, you’re only in your apartment when something’s going on in your personal life. So, from your dulcet tone and the fact that it’s just past midnight and I heard nothing from your apartment before—meaning you probably just got in—something’s up.” 

Steve had to hand it to the guy; he was good. Once again, he found himself intrigued at his military background. 

“And based on your silence, I’m right. So, spill.” 

“You sure you don’t mind me unloading all of this on you? I mean, I don’t even know your name.” 

“It’s James.” 

“Grant.” Steve didn’t know why he didn’t say his real name, but he didn’t want to risk his neighbor figuring out who he was. Not because he didn’t trust him, but because he wanted a relationship that wasn’t just about him being Captain America. (He tried not to think about the moment when they would inevitably meet, but he hoped his neighbor would understand.) 

“It’s nice to meet you, Grant. Now, tell me your problems so I can tell you mine. What brings you to the apartment?” 

There was a lightness undercutting the serious tone of James’ voice that Steve appreciated. And for a moment, Steve felt almost normal. He rested his head against the wall, trying to parse out what actually was wrong. 

“It’s complicated,” he said. Not because he didn’t know what to say, but because it was. 

“I’ve got no plans for the evening. I even slept last night, so I’m set.” 

For a moment, Steve considered inviting the guy over, just for the comfort of having someone there physically, but that would defeat the purpose of him giving a fake name. And besides, it’s not like he was alone. 

“I was at home, but my brain wouldn’t shut off. When it’s this bad, the only thing I know will help is taking a drive, and before I knew it, I was here.” 

He’d left Addison asleep in their bed. There was a note on the nightstand in case she woke up before he returned, but he’d written it when he’d expected to return to the Tower. He should text her, let her know where he was, but his phone remained untouched beside him. There was still time.

“In your other home.” If silence could be an eye roll, this was what it would sound like. 

“I consider this apartment to be my actual home,” Steve told him. “Just, with my job, you know-I don’t know. There’s not a whole lot of people that know I have a place here. When things get to be too much, it’s nice to be able to escape.” He didn’t know why he was justifying the fact that he had his place. It’s not like he paid rent at the Tower. He just had a wing because he was Captain America; it hadn’t been something he’d asked for. 

“So, your mind wouldn’t shut up at your other place. What’s up?” James carefully steered him back on the original track of their conversation. 

“How much do you remember about my job?” Steve asked.

“You said you were on a special ops team, right?” 

“Leader, technically,” Steve said. There was something about speaking so nonchalantly about being a part of the Avengers that was comforting. “We’ve been working on eradicating a couple sleeper cells of this terrorist group-” 

“Shit, man. How much of this are you allowed to share with non-team members?” 

“You’re not secretly in league with terrorists, are you? Because I’d hate to have to arrest you and put an end to-to whatever this is.” It was said facetiously, but Steve would miss this if it ended for some reason. For whatever reason, it felt safe. 

“Hate to break it to you, bud.” 

“Damn, and we hit it off so well.” 

There was a chuckle on the other side of the wall. Steve sighed, smiling. 

“The point is, things aren’t going well. Most of the information we’ve been given so far is utter horseshit, but we can’t treat it as such because the first time we elect to-” 

“That’s the time it’ll actually be true,” James finished. “Yeah.” 

“So I’m dealing with this, and on top of everything, I thought-” Steve sighed. He knew Addison thought it was stupid that he was still dwelling on this, and he knew she meant well, but he couldn’t just drop it. If he knew one way or the other, that would be different. But this, this not knowing if Bucky was back or not, drove him crazy. 

“What, you thought your girl was cheating on you? You thought your team was keeping something from you? You can’t just leave a guy hanging like this.” 

Steve blinked, realizing only now that he’d finished the sentence in his head. “Nothing like that.” He shook his head, clearing it. “I thought I saw someone from my past. It was just a sliver of his face, so I don’t know if it was actually him or if I’m just seeing things because work has me stretched thin.” 

“Who is this guy to you?” 

Steve furrowed his brow, his bottom lip between his teeth. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully. They hadn’t ended well, but they’d been inseparable before that day. “An ex-something.” An ex-almost. An ‘if this were a different time’. 

James’ voice was gentle. “I’m sure you’ve already thought about this, but can’t you use your accreditations and actual job to figure out if he’s here?”

“I’ve thought about it.” It had been in the back of his mind the entire week. “It would just be more trouble than it’s worth.” 

“Who was the one to break it off, him or you?” 

Once again, Steve was astounded at his ability to know just what to ask. And for some reason, he answered. “We both contributed. I mean, I acted first, put everything on the line. I guess I never really stopped to figure out if he felt the same way before saying everything. I just knew the way I felt and hoped he felt the same. He got scared. We both said things that shouldn’t have been said. I was the first one to walk away, but he’s the one that didn’t follow.” 

His neighbor was silent. Steve continued talking. 

“And I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I haven’t even told my girl, and we’ve been together for over two years now.” Steve rubbed his eyes. “I just-I don’t know.” He’d think about telling her and then he’d worry she’d think he was dwelling on the past every time he went into himself. 

“If you’re worried this much, shouldn’t you?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Can I ask why you haven’t told her? I mean, if seeing just a sliver of someone’s face that looks like him can send you into a spiral like this, doesn’t she deserve to know?” 

Steve let his gaze unfocus, staring at the frame that was on his nightstand. It was a photo of him and Addison the day he’d finally asked her out. “I think I’m afraid that she’ll think I’m keeping more from her.” 

“Grant, everybody has history. You’re not special in that way. But if the only reason you’re not telling her about this is because you’re afraid she’ll think you have other secrets, I think that says something about your relationship itself. But have you given her any reasons to think you’d have other things hidden from her?” 

“I don’t think so.” The only reason he’d kept it to himself was because it was too painful to bring up. He’d never had feelings that intense for anybody and for it to end in the way that it did... 

“Then you should tell her.” There was a small pause, in which Steve imagined James sighing. “Look, I don’t want to tell you how to act in your relationship, particularly since I don’t actually know you, but I think you need to ask yourself why you’re telling all of this to me, whom you’ve had all of four conversations with, when you have someone you’ve been with for two years.” 

Steve rested his head against the wall, exhausted from the ride his anxiety had forced him on. “I bet you’re wondering why they trust me to lead when I can’t even sort out my personal life.” 

“Nah, just wondering when you’ll be done so I can regale you with my developments.” It was said in such a way that Steve knew he wasn’t annoyed. 

“You want relationship advice from me?” 

“All you need to do is smile and nod, realize I can’t see that, and then give me verbal agreement.” 

“As long as there’s nothing illegal, I think I can do that.” 

“I’m so glad you have that ability.” 

If silences could smile, this one most certainly did. Steve hadn’t realized how much he missed bantering with someone. Sam lived too far away and was too busy with his day job for their conversations to be long and frequent, and Natasha wasn’t the conversation type. 

“So, I’m going to cast your attention back to our first conversation. You told me I should try to reach out to the friend I had before the war, let him know that I made it home and that I’m okay as I can be.” 

“Yeah, I remember,” Steve said. It was nice to be listening to someone else’s problem rather than talking about his own. 

“And you’re right. I’m going to. But I’m not doing it for him. I owe it to myself to close that chapter in my life. I can’t fully move forward if I’m stuck in the past, right?” 

“That’s great, James!” 

“Thank you. So, I accidentally figured out where he works, and tomorrow I’m going to go and see if he’ll agree to talk with me. If not, well, at least we’ll have seen each other and I’ll still be able to apologize.” 

“So you’re giving him the choice as to whether you move forward,” Steve murmured. 

“I was the one who hurt him, so I understand completely if he wants nothing to do with me. And it’s not like I’m expecting anything to come from this because he’s moved on with his life, and I’m happy for him, I just need to to try for my own sake.” 

Steve didn’t respond, not knowing what to say. 

***

“Can I ask you something, Grant?” Bucky asked after a period of silence. 

“Of course,” his neighbor replied. He sounded slightly dazed, as if Bucky had just pulled him out of a light doze. 

“If your ex came up to you and asked you if you could talk, what would you say?” 

“I don’t know,” he said after a while. “He shattered my heart. I want to believe I’d be the better person and let him say what he needs to because I know the courage it would take for him to make this decision, but I don’t know if I could open myself up to being hurt by him again.” 

Bucky nodded to himself, starting to doubt his plan more and more by the second. “Do you think I’m making the right choice?” 

Once again, Grant took his time before answering. “I think you have to do what’s right for you. Taking other people’s wellbeing into consideration is important, but in the end, you have to live life for yourself. And just remember, how people respond is not a reflection of your character, but their own.”

This time, it was Bucky who took the time before speaking. “I’m going to do it.” 

The words left him with a little thrill. He was starting to take charge of his life again. And yes, it would hurt if Steve rejected him, but at least he would’ve done everything he could. 

“Good. And James? I hope it works out for you. I really do.” 

“Thank you, Grant. I hope everything works out for you as well. You seem like a good guy.” 

The _thank you_ Bucky got in return was so quiet he didn’t know if he imagined it. Another period of silence settled over them. It was comfortable, the kind that happens naturally when you’re alone together with someone. Bucky loved the feeling more than he could say. 

When the silence grew long enough for him to think that maybe Grant had fallen asleep, he settled his book back on his knees. Although his eyes scanned the words on the page, he didn’t take in anything. He was thinking that if things had been different, if he hadn’t been born in 1917 and been subjected to a series of experiments that turned him into little more than a machine of destruction, if he wasn’t trying to build a new life for himself, if Grant wasn’t in a relationship, that maybe they could’ve been a good pair. 

He had no idea, how could he, that on the other side of the wall, Steve lay curled on his side, bed achingly empty beside him, thinking the exact same thing. 

***

When Steve woke the next morning, it was still dark. He groped for his phone to check the time, groaning when he saw it was only four. There was no way he’d be able to fall back asleep, not when his dream still scratched his consciousness. It hadn’t been a nightmare per se, but Steve almost would’ve preferred it if it had been. At least he knew how to face those. He didn’t know what to do with the unsettling feeling of being surrounded by a sea of faceless people, familiar enough to know, but not enough to place a name to. They hadn’t attacked him. They’d just watched. 

Dragging himself from bed, he put himself through his morning paces. Teeth brushed. Pushups. Face washed. Situps. Running clothes on. Planks. Not ten minutes later, he was out the door, breathing in the predawn air. No matter if he woke up at the Tower or the apartment, the routine was always the same. The only thing that changed was how far he went. 

If he was at the apartment and followed his regular route, he went seven. Through the neighborhood, up the Manhattan Bridge, back down the Brooklyn, and a winding path back home. If he was at the Tower, he ran through Central Park. 

If he was in a hurry, he went four. 

Today, he put his phone on airplane mode, turned on his music and just ran. 

Steve hadn’t had a morning like this in a year, where his brain was so loud it felt like he couldn’t hear the rest of the world. His neighbor had spun his world on its axis. One conversation, one potential sight of Bucky, and he didn’t know which way was up. 

What he had never allowed himself to acknowledge was the fact that he always missed Bucky. It was a constant ache that never left, no matter how hard he tried to numb it with other things. A piece of him had been ripped away when Bucky had told him he couldn’t love him, and no matter how he wished that would heal, he knew it never would. He didn’t know if he wanted it to; it forced himself to never take people at face value; he never trusted people until they proved themselves ( _so why do you trust your neighbor?_ ). It had proven a helpful trait in most of their long missions. If it proved to be a dangerous way to live his personal life, what else could he do?

Since last Saturday, each of his dreams had been a nightmare. On Monday, it had been particularly bad. The only reason he hadn’t hurt Addison was because he’d woken paralyzed. In the three minutes it had taken for his limbs to wake up, he thought he’d seen the Soldier standing over him, eyes cold, knife in his hand. It had taken over an hour for him to stop shaking, Addison’s arms around him. Neither of them had returned to sleep that night. 

He’d avoided sleeping until he’d accidentally drifted off last night, the sound of his neighbor’s voice in his ears. 

His lungs burned. He kept running, his pace furious and unforgiving. 

The worst thing about all of this was that he’d been doing good. (Or, at least he’d been able to put on a facade so well he’d fooled himself.) He went out with people who weren’t his team. He had a therapist he trusted (but hadn’t seen in a few months—he’d been busy, and planned on scheduling an appointment, but just hadn’t yet). He had a girl he loved and trusted (but still kept secrets from to protect). He had a life outside being Captain America. 

The sun rose. New York started to wake up. Steve barely noticed. 

If Steve was being honest with himself, he knew what he needed to do. He needed to know if his past was coming to haunt him. If it was, he needed to suck up his courage and face it. If it wasn’t, he needed to pack it tightly away and never think about it again. Or maybe, he needed to follow his neighbor’s advice and talk about it, let go of it once and for all. His life wasn’t in the 40s anymore, it was here and now. He couldn’t keep living with one foot in both worlds. Sooner than later, it would catch up with him. Sure, Steve could run, but even he could only run so far before his body gave out. That didn’t mean he would stop, though. He’d never been good at self-preservation. 

When the world came back into focus, the sun had risen above the skyline and Steve was in Central Park. If he could remember anything from his route, he’d run the entire perimeter before losing himself in one of the many trails inside. He couldn’t tell himself how many miles he’d run. He felt like he’d just returned from a week-long mission. 

Given the fact that the Tower was less than ten minutes away, it would have made more sense to simply go home, gather Addison in his arms, and just take comfort in her. Of course, it being Steve, he turned around and started back towards the apartment. It started to rain halfway through his journey home. He couldn’t bring himself to run.

When he finally walked into the Tower, drenched to the skin and exhausted, it was close to six pm. To stop moving meant thinking. Thinking meant feeling. So he hadn’t stopped. He’d walked until he became half-convinced he’d walked himself small. Although, when he’d been small, he’d had the courage to do anything. 

The conversation that was happening in the common room stopped immediately when he walked in. Addison immediately stepped away from Wanda and wrapped him in her arms. Steve barely noticed the looks of concern on every face except Natasha’s when he was led into his suite; she was the only one who had seen him get this bad before, and she looked pissed. 

“I’m not going to ask for an explanation right now,” Addison told him quietly, her face against his chest as she hugged him. “Just tell me one thing. Are you okay?” 

And as much as Steve wanted to tell her that he was, walking through the streets of New York for over twelve hours in a semi-dissociative haze with no regard for his safety were not the actions of a man who was okay. As much as he wanted to believe Bucky didn’t exist within the parameters of this relationship, he always had. As much as he wanted to believe keeping his past to himself was the right thing to do, it wasn’t: it was cowardice. 

It’s a common myth that Steven Grant Rogers, commonly known to the public as Captain America, wasn’t afraid of anything. To put the records straight, that’s a lie. While a Super Soldier, while enhanced, while leader of the Avengers, Steve Rogers was still just a man. And the thing that scared him the most was staring him straight in the face. It had backed him into an alley, and no matter how hard he swung, no matter how he bloodied his fist, this was not a fight he could win. So with all the courage he could gather, he said the one tiny word that threatened to shatter him. 

“No.”

He took her by the shoulders and gently pushed her away. She looked exhausted. If Steve could feel anything apart from the numbness, he would’ve felt guilty at the knowledge he was the cause. Reining in his courage again before it could run away, he said the five words he’d always dreaded hearing. 

“And we need to talk.” 

***

Bucky remembered to bring a backpack this time. Of course, if he’d known last week that he would’ve ended up in a farmers market, he would’ve brought one then, too. He also hadn’t followed his plan of only having so much money in his wallet. If he was going to buy things for his apartment, he figured this was the place to do it, where he could give back to the community he was living among. 

It would be a lie to say that Bucky wasn’t nervous. His entire life could turn upside down today. He knew he could turn Steve’s life upside down today. That was the last thing he wanted, particularly because he’d already been the cause of that. However, his neighbor had been right: he needed to do what was best for him. Steve had made his choice in walking away. Bucky was making his choice now. 

It would also be a lie to say that he hadn’t spent an obscene amount of time in front of his closet, trying to figure out what to wear. He didn’t want Steve to see him as the Soldier, so he’d thrown any black clothing aside. He also didn’t want to appear like he was trying too hard, but he wanted to prove that he was doing okay. In the end, he’d settled on a red henley and a pair of jeans, and capped it off (literally) with an old baseball hat. He hoped the outfit conveyed comfortable and stable. 

Bucky took his time walking through the market. He once again stopped by the tent he’d purchased plums from, smiling at the young woman who once again wore her hair in two buns. Her name, he learned, was Jamie and she was a student at Stevens Institute of Technology. She was going to be an Information Security Analyst, she said, or at least, that’s what she hoped. He wished her luck when she handed him his change. 

He realized he was stalling when he spent much more time than necessary examining the squashes and the vendor looked at him with raised eyebrows. Bucky handed him the bag he wanted, paid, and left. It started to rain. Light thunder rolled across the sky. A few of the vendors around him debated whether or not to pack up, some pulling out their phones to check the radar. It was now or never. 

Bucky squared his shoulders and started towards the quadrant he’d neglected even looking at since he arrived. The entire time he walked, he told himself that what he was doing was good. This would be good for the both of them. They could both let the past go and move on. 

Despite how nervous he was, the thought that he was going to see Steve again excited him. God, did Bucky miss him. Sure, they hadn’t ended well, but they’d been thick as thieves. He missed being able to tell everything to someone and know they’d have your back no matter what. He missed the nights they’d just talk in the dark quiet, the other a hairbreadth away so all they needed to do to touch was move a finger. 

He just needed to turn the corner and he’d be there. Yellow hair and blue eyes and a smile that could light the world. Bucky’s heart beat painfully in his chest. Less than a minute away. A hundred feet. To be able to talk one last time, even if it ended up being a goodbye, was something Bucky wanted so much it physically hurt. 

So when he turned the corner and saw that the space next to the big tree was vacant, it felt like someone had punched him through a wall. He kept walking anyway, only stopping when he was directly in front of the empty lot. Where Steve should have been. 

“You looking for Steven?” the old lady selling flowers in the tent beside him asked. 

Bucky turned slowly, feeling like he was all the hundred years his body had been forced to endure. “I was hoping to be able to talk to him about his art,” Bucky muttered. 

“How ‘bout you come out of the rain, dear,” she said, beckoning him under the awning of her tent. Bucky did, breathing deeply the scents of the flowers surrounding him. “How do you know Steven?” 

For some reason, it took him by surprise that she was initiating a conversation. He supposed she was trying to help him wait out the rain. “I bought a piece last week, figured coming back at near the same time was the best way to reach him.” 

She blinked sympathetically at him, her eyes a rich, dark brown. “His schedule is pretty erratic, never know when he’s going to show. Occasionally his girl will be here without him, but most of the time they’ll show together. If you keep trying, you’ll catch him.” 

The next roll of thunder was slow and booming. If Bucky didn’t move soon, he would be trapped. That, or forced to walk in a downpour. Which, he supposed, wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. He’d been forced to endure blizzards. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, touching the brim of his cap. 

“Oh, don’t you ma’am me,” she said, waving her hands at him. “Makes me feel old. It’s Dolores. My friends back in the day all called me Dottie.”

Bucky grinned at the familiarity of the nickname. It had been the name of a close friend of his and Steve’s. “Thank you, Dottie.” To prove his thanks, and because they were gorgeous and he needed to replace the bouquet on his table, he picked up a bunch of sunflowers and passed her some money. 

“You leaving so soon?” She eyed the dark clouds. The storm looked like it would be nasty. Most of the vendors down the lane were packing up their wares. 

“Can I help you get home?” Bucky didn’t like the idea of her driving in this weather. As if to prove his point, the rain intensified. 

It looked like she was going to refuse, but when another roll of thunder shook the ground, the resolve on her face cracked. “That would be nice. Thank you, son.” 

“It’s Bucky.” If he couldn’t ma’am her, she couldn’t call him son. 

A half-hour later, Bucky had seen Dottie delivered safely to her home and her flowers around her living room. She would try selling the remainder of them tomorrow, she told him. The rest would go to the local cemetery. 

“Can I make you a cup of tea?” Bucky asked. The entire situation made him feel firmly rooted back in the day, and his manners were coming back in full force. 

“Only if you make one for yourself as well. If you think I’m going to let yourself go out in this, you’re sorely mistaken, young man.” 

Bucky grumbled at her, but a warm feeling spread throughout his entire body at the thought of someone taking care of him. It hadn’t been something he’d had since before the war. After everything, it was something he’d forgotten about, something he figured he would never deserve. And so, if his eyes burned a little while he set the kettle to boil, that was just between him. 

The rain ended just after six, but Bucky ended up staying until eight. He’d learned that Dottie’s husband had died a year prior. He was the one that had started the business of selling flowers. They’d actually had a shop until a few years before he’d died, but had been forced to sell when they couldn’t afford the rent. They’d been at the market ever since. 

She was a fascinating old thing. Bucky waved her down and ordered them both dinner. Over plates of orange chicken and fried rice, she regaled him with stories of the Brooklyn of old. Of how she remembered a certain Steven Rogers going from a skinny little kid to Captain America. 

“The stories I could tell about that kid,” she’d told him. “I fancied him to be my friend, you know.” 

Bucky hadn’t asked if she knew the Steven that sold his art in the tent next to him was the same person. He didn’t ask if she recognized him. He’d just asked for a story or two, chuckling when she eagerly complied. 

By the time he returned to his apartment, Bucky was exhausted. He hadn’t expected to run into a different old friend, but it was nice to know that she’d lived a full, happy life. With a sigh, he collapsed on his bed. He was disappointed that he didn’t see Steve, but he wouldn’t stop trying until he did. If he had to go every week until the end of summer, so be it. 

His phone buzzed. With difficulty, Bucky took it from his back pocket and stared at the message. 

> UNKNOWN [8:42 PM]: Second warning. Don’t make it three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter soundtrack: No One Said it Would Be Easy (And the subsequent album), by Cloud Cult 
> 
> A little later that I anticipated, but you know life. It's crazy. Your author found herself a real, actual job and is in the midst of an apartment hunt. That being said, I have no idea if I can adhere to the schedule I created for myself. I'm going to try to stay as consistent as possible with posting, but I can't make any promises. Well, I can make one. This fic won't be abandoned. Just be patient if it takes a while to update. 
> 
> Thanks for all your love and support; it means the world. Until next time. <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> : - )
> 
> "But I knew you/ Dancin' in your Levi's/ Drunk under a streetlight,/ I knew you/ Hand under my sweatshirt/Baby, kiss it better"

“His name was Bucky, and he was the first person I ever loved, before I even knew what loving another person was.” 

Steve sat on his bed, head in his hands. Exhaustion pulled down at him. All he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and sleep for another seventy years. He didn’t want to talk about his life before the war. But he needed to, so he would. Addison sat next to him, silent, her hands folded in her lap. 

“We’d known each other since we were old enough to walk, inseparable since we could talk. At first, I just thought I loved him like a brother—he as good as much was. But then there was one winter where I got really sick—rheumatic fever—and despite everything, despite the warnings from his parents, Bucky came over every day to keep me company when my ma was at the hospital. Told me stories, wiped my brow, held me when I was awake and terrified. I don’t know what shifted for me, but one day when I woke up to find him sitting at my bedside, eyes closed and hands folded against his lips, I knew I loved him in a different way, in a way that was far more dangerous than all of my health conditions.” 

It was still an image he held close to his heart. Early morning light coming through the grimy window, highlighting all the dust in the air. Bucky sitting in the hard chair, elbows resting against the bed, hands folded and pressed against his lips. It was the first and only time Steve had seen Bucky pray. It was, to this day, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. From the shadows under his eyes, it was clear Bucky had been awake the entire night. When Steve had lifted his fingers and touched him, just a brush against his elbow, the joy on Bucky’s face had been radiant. 

That night had been only one of his many brushes with death. Steve could only imagine how hard it had been on Bucky, the terror of spending nights at his bedside, comforting his ma, praying together that he’d wake up. And yet, he never left. They were supposed to have been together until the end. 

It was what had made the betrayal all the greater. 

“I hid it for as long as I could. When my ma was still alive, it was easy to play off, him coming over all the time. And then she died and we moved in together, a small one-bed hole of a room. In order to both fit on the mattress, I basically had to sleep on top of him. There were mornings I’d wake up and he’d be watching me and there was this look in his eye like he felt the exact same as me.”

Those mornings had been some of his favorites ever. Hot, stale air; yelling from the street; Bucky’s heart steady in his ear. Looking up and seeing Bucky watching him, one arm tucked behind his head, the other on Steve’s back, smile soft. Looking back, it was impossible to think he’d ever believed he’d felt anything other than love. And the way Bucky looked at him, even before he’d heard Bucky say that he loved him back, he’d known. 

“And then came one of the worst days of my life. November 1941. We were walking home from the docks. I’d been debating for days whether or not to tell him how I felt. It was a risk. If people found out, we were as good as dead. It was considered a waste of space, throwing us queers in jail, and it’s not like I was high on anyone’s list to save anyway. Bucky would’ve lost his job at the docks. We would’ve been on the streets, and that would’ve killed me as good as a knife to the heart. But Bucky talked in his sleep, and the night before he’d said he loved me. So I made my choice.” 

Telling all of this to Natasha after drinking half of Fury’s stashed whiskey had been hard. Doing it with nothing to numb whatever this was he felt was nearing impossible. He took a shaky breath. Addison still hadn’t moved. 

“It started to rain, so we cut through an alley as a shortcut back to the apartment. There was no one in sight. I told him that I loved him. I saw the fear in his eyes, but also the happiness. And then he was kissing me and it was like my entire center of gravity had shifted. My entire world made sense. And then he was shoving me back. He was telling me we should forget all of what had just happened, that it was wrong. That he couldn’t love me, that I was too much for him. With every word he said, he ripped my heart just a bit more, so I was positive I would bleed out right in front of him. The only thing I remember saying was that I never wanted to see him again.” 

Steve looked up to the ceiling, trying to force the tears back. He’d promised himself long ago that he would never cry over Bucky Barnes again. The lump in his throat grew so large he feared it would suffocate him before he could keep talking. 

“I went home, grabbed all of my things, and showed up on the stoop of Dottie’s house. Her parents let me stay until I found another place a few weeks later. Pearl Harbor was bombed, we joined the war, Bucky got drafted, and I became Captain America. At first, it felt good to be doing something, even if it was just selling bonds; it kept my mind occupied enough to forget about things for a little bit. And then they sent me to Italy. I learned the fate of the 107th. I led the mission that really earned me the rank of Captain. 

“Seeing Bucky strapped to the table, half delirious, whispering his name and numbers, it almost felt like our roles had reversed. Now I was the guardian angel, the barrier between death. And, I don’t know, maybe I thought that things could be different now that he wouldn’t have to constantly worry about my health, but I was only fooling myself. He was a coward.” 

He sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. “Who am I kidding? I was the coward. Asked Phillips to give him medical leave so I wouldn’t have to be reminded of everything. Tried justifying it to myself by saying there was enough reason; he’d been tortured, injected with only god knows what. He deserved to go home. He should’ve gone home.” 

Now the tears actually did come, because everything that happened after, the horrors that Bucky faced, those were all on him. Addison reached out, setting a hand on his knee. 

“We’d gotten word of a plot to sabotage the train bringing our soldiers away from the front lines so they could go home. It was our job, the Howlies and I, to sweep the tracks and make sure there wasn’t anything. We came back to base with about fifty deactivated explosives. Bucky stared at me as he got on the train and I just turned away.”

His fingers curled into his palm, pressing crescents. If Addison hadn’t taken his hands, he knew there would’ve been blood. 

“We missed one bomb. The explosion killed everyone, and it was my fault. If I’d done one last sweep of the tracks, none of this would’ve happened. Peggy tried to convince me otherwise, but it’s true. I killed the man I loved as sure as I shot him.”

“Steve.” 

“I crashed the plane and froze. Helped save the world from aliens. Met Natasha. Met Sam. Found out that the organization I was working for was little more than a cover for the organization I killed myself for. And then he was there. Bucky was. But it wasn’t him, not really. He didn’t know who I was. But it was him. Hydra had turned him into a weapon. Then came the Helicarriers. We fought. I fell. He saved me. He disappeared. For two years, there wasn’t a trace, not of the Soldier, not of the man, so I put it behind and tried to focus on the life I was building for myself.

“And then last Saturday, I thought I saw him at the market. I thought he was the one who bought the sketch. Natasha hasn’t said anything, so I know it wasn’t him, but I can’t stop thinking about it, and I’m angry both at him and me for thinking that it was him. Because if it had been him, I should be happy he got away from everything. He looked happy.” 

Steve snorted in disgust and self-deprecation. “He’d been turned into a weapon against his will and somehow got out to live his life, and all I can think about is how he’s making me relive memories. How selfish can I get?” 

“Are you going to let me speak now?” 

Having retreated further into his head the longer he’d spoken, Steve had all but forgotten Addison was there. It was overwhelming, returning to awareness enough to see the room around him. His hands were still trapped in hers. He didn’t know how many times he’d spoken over her. 

“Whatever happened during the war, whatever happened after, nothing changes the fact that he hurt you. You trusted him with something and he abused that. You have the right to be upset.” 

“All of this is my fault. If I hadn’t said anything, I wouldn’t have asked for him to get sent home. He wouldn’t have fallen. He wouldn’t have become the Soldier. Hydra wouldn’t have been able to do everything they’d done.” 

“No.” The cold fierceness of her words startled him. He looked up, meeting her gaze for the first time. Her expression was surprisingly gentle. “If there’s only one thing I know about you, Steve, it’s that you are never one to back down from following your ideals. You did what you needed to. Nothing that followed is your fault.”

Steve rubbed his hands over his face again, fighting to control his breathing. It wouldn’t do him any good to have a panic attack. Even so, the strength of his words fluctuated. “I just told you that I love a man who was turned into a weapon because I was too much of a coward to see him everyday, a man who has been at the forefront of political destabilization for decades, who might be fighting to find a way back into my life. I don’t understand how you’re so calm.” 

She took his face between her hands and forced him to look up. “Do you want me to be angry? Upset?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe.” He’d kept all of this from her, she should feel something. 

“Steve, I knew what I signed up for when I agreed to this relationship. I knew you had baggage. I knew there would be days where I needed to let you process, where I needed to let go of my needs and help you get through whatever it is.” 

“I saw him and it felt like I’d been kicked in the chest. I couldn’t breathe.” 

She drew her thumbs across his cheekbones. “Steve, it wasn’t him. You have to remember that.” 

“I know,” he whispered raggedly, “but if this is what happens when I think it’s him, I’m scared of how I’ll react if he ever does show up.” 

“You still love him.”

“I don’t want to.” He wished he’d never loved him. If they’d just been brothers, all of this would be easy. 

“But you do.” 

He nodded. “I love you, too, though.” 

Her thumbs moved across his cheeks again. “I know.” 

“I don’t know what to do.” If he didn’t know better, he’d be convinced that he had turned himself small again; that he would break if he moved. It was all too much for his exhausted mind to process, and it terrified him. 

Her smile was sad. She’d seen him cry, of course. It was a little known fact that Steve Rogers was a sap, particularly when it came to Disney movies; the team had taken to always having a tissue box on hand on movie nights. But this, this was something new. 

“First, you’re going to take a shower,” she told him. “And then you’re going to put on your pajamas and get into bed, and you’re going to sleep.” 

“I don’t know if I can.” His words were so quiet even he had difficulty hearing them. He didn’t know it was possible to have a panic attack without hyperventilating, but he was pretty sure he’d just done it. If she wasn’t holding him, Steve was sure he’d have collapsed onto his side. 

“I’ll help you.” 

Addison took his hands and stood, gently pulling him up. In the bathroom, he allowed her to take off his clothes and lead him into the shower, where she gently washed his hair and body. A soft towel dried him off, and then he was stepping into sweatpants, a loose t-shirt coming over his head. He somehow managed to brush his teeth himself. 

And then he was in bed, his head on her chest, her arms around him. Light fingers carded through his hair. Soft lips pressed against his forehead. He didn’t want to sleep, didn’t want to face the nightmares that would come after today, but he found he didn’t have a choice. As soon as his eyes shut, he was gone.

*** 

Steve’s breathing had finally evened when Natasha stepped into their room. Addison looked up from her book to find the redhead in the doorway, eyes on Steve.

“How is he?” 

Addison shook her head, being careful not to shake him. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him this shattered. But he’s finally asleep, so I’m going to take that as a win for now.” 

“He told you, didn’t he?” 

She looked down at the man sleeping on her chest. With the way he’d curled into her, he’d made himself seem small. For now, his dreams seemed to be treating him well; his face hadn’t tightened the way it did when they turned for the worse. After everything he’d told her, she wasn’t naive enough to believe her holding him would be enough to keep them at bay. Not with the way every single word had pinched her heart. 

“If I ever get my hands on that man,” she whispered, “he’s going to regret ever-”

“You’re never going to get a chance, Addison. If he comes close to Steve, he and I are going to have a little talk.”

Addison shivered at the cul of Natasha’s lip, but knowing it was on her side was all the assurance she needed. Natasha was fiercely protective of Steve; Addison knew she would never admit to it, but Natasha saw Steve as the older brother she’d never had but always wanted. 

“You’re sure he’s not back, right?” 

Natasha’s eyes turned cold. “He’s not back.” 

Addison nodded and looked back at Steve, brushing a hand over his cheek. When she looked back up, Natasha was gone. 

***

Ignoring the curling unease brought from Natasha’s text, Bucky stared up at his ceiling. It was apparently something he did after facing things that dislodged the careful boxes he’d shoved his life into. Granted, it was the same thing he’d done as the Soldier, but being strapped down on a table or shoved into the cryo tube hadn’t exactly given him another choice. 

It was too much to ask that his neighbor—Grant, he kept reminding himself, his name was Grant—would be in his apartment two nights in a row, but there was so much he wanted to unload. Sure, he hadn’t seen Steve, but he’d met another old friend that had always, no matter what, sided with Steve. If he was being honest with himself, he’d forgotten about Dottie until she’d said her name. That was when the memories had returned. While he didn’t know if Dottie knew who he was, it had felt good to just hear about the old days, to hear about things he remembered, and things he didn’t. Turned out Steve had gone to Dottie’s after leaving the apartment. He hadn’t said much to her, but had apparently acted like holy hell in a handbasket. If Bucky hadn’t known why, he would’ve snorted. 

He wondered if Natasha had told Steve that he was back in town. He wondered if Steve cared. Probably not, considering the way they’d ended; considering that he had a girl of his own. Of course, Bucky didn’t know how long they’d been together, but she seemed nice enough. She had to be, if Steve liked her.

Plus, Steve hadn’t cared when Bucky had boarded the train that changed his life forever. 

It was always a strange thought, what his life would’ve turned out to be if he hadn’t been the coward and taken the ticket out. He probably would’ve died overseas. His ma and sisters would’ve received a second condolence letter. Well, that part wouldn’t have changed. Knowing what he’d put them through was part of the guilt he carried every day. 

He’d tried to find his sisters when he’d finally remembered who he was. And he had. Maimonides Cemetery. Next to his ma and da. The headstones had been small and worn, but the names had all been clear. All four of them had married. Turned out, he was an uncle. It made him wonder how much his sisters had talked about him, if somewhere there were still tales about James Buchanan Barnes, the boy from Brooklyn who’d tried taming Steve Rogers before he’d become Captain America. He wondered if they knew what he’d become. He wondered if he’d ever passed them; if Becca’s kids had the same bright eyes and small cleft in the chin. 

There were a lot of things he wondered. If he’d made it home, he wondered if he’d still be alive. If he’d have found a wife and had kids. If he’d have been happy had he done that. If he’d have found the bravery to come out and find a husband. If he’d have gone to school. If he’d have grieved when he’d learned how Steve had crashed the plane in order to save the world. (It was a stupid question, he knew he would’ve. The real question is how long after Bucky would’ve stayed alive, and that was the one that terrified him). 

His life now was strange. He felt both more and less connected with the world. Things both mattered more and less. Steve mattered both more and less. Knowing that he moved on and would be completely fine without Bucky in his life hurt, but knowing that he was living his own life apart from everything that had happened between them somehow made it easier. And while nothing would change the fact that he would always be deeply in love with the man and that he would always be his first choice, it made Bucky realize how selfish he was for expecting Steve’s life to revolve solely around him. 

It also made Bucky feel better about moving on himself. He knew he should feel guilty about leaving the Soldier behind, that people would say it showed his complete disregard for everything he’d done, but they didn’t understand how heavy that crown was. Well, arm, technically. The world didn’t know that even if he learned to forgive himself for what he’d been forced to do, the scars would never go away. They didn’t know that all of the scars along his back bore the tallies of all the times he’d disobeyed. They didn’t know that if Bucky didn’t leave the Soldier, he’d go crazy. They didn’t understand that he had been his first victim. 

It was still hard to believe, but his first step of attempting to move on from his bloody past was trying to think his victims would be glad to see him happy. And it was this exact train of thought that led him to thinking about his neighbor again. He wanted to know if Grant had told his girl about his first heartbreak and how it had gone. He wanted to know more about Grant’s life in general. After their nighttime conversations, some of which lasted hours, he was sure he was entitled to at least getting a drink with the guy. Maybe they could become actual friends.

Maybe if something happened between him and his girl (and guilt curled in his stomach every time he thought about this, but he’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t) something would be able to begin between them. Of course, he wanted Steve back in his life, he wanted a chance to make things right again and have the life he’d ruined, but there was something about Grant that made Bucky feel like he’d known him for years rather than weeks. And whether or not he wanted to admit it, he felt something for the guy. It confused and frightened him because he’d learned quickly in his captivity to fear and distrust anyone new, but Bucky felt strangely safe when they talked. And because of how quickly he distrusted anyone, he was deciding to go with it; he wanted to move past the anger and the fear. And whether or not Grant was a friend or something more, Bucky wanted him as a part of his journey forward. 

It was at this point that Bucky realized he hadn’t heard anything from Grant’s apartment all day. Not that that was unusual in itself as he wasn’t often in it, but there was always something the morning after he slept over. He hadn’t sounded like he’d been in the greatest mindset when they’d spoken the night before. Bucky knew what it was like to be overly stressed and tired. Any little thing had the potential to be the breaking point. The thought of anything happening to him sent hot panic coursing through him. The fact that it was nearing eleven didn’t occur to him. Without knowing what he was doing, Bucky was out the door and in the hallway knocking on Grant’s door. 

He waited for a minute before knocking again. And again. Rationally, Bucky knew Grant wasn’t home. Irrationally, Bucky couldn’t help but imagine him lying prone in his bed, paralyzed with the weight of everything he’d been through and had to still go through. As it is, that was the corner of his brain that won. So, after checking to make sure the hallway was empty, Bucky took his kit from his back pocket and easily let himself in. 

Bright moonlight filtered in through the large windows in the doorway, shedding light onto the tidy space. Nothing sat on the kitchen counters. After a cursory glance around the space, something small twinged in his heart. The apartment was neat, but despite it being Grant’s preferred place of residence, it was strangely devoid of personal artifacts. There wasn’t any question of it’s comfort—a large sectional took up much of the living room, facing a flat screen bordered by shelves holding both an extensive collection of Disney movies and books—but there weren’t any pictures on the walls he could see.

There was a huge canvas over the couch, however, and while Bucky knew he shouldn’t, he couldn’t help but walk over and see it. He turned on the small lamp and his stomach clenched. Of fucking course it was a painting of Steve’s. Not only was it a painting of Steve’s, it was the same sketch Bucky had framed on his wall, being that of the Brooklyn Bridge. And then he huffed a laugh. Of course they had the same painting. Why not. It was just more proof Bucky didn’t need that they would get along just fine should they actually meet face to face. 

A noise from outside the apartment had him snapping back to the mission at hand. Backing away from the painting, he turned off the light and followed the hallway to Grant’s room. The door was closed. Heart pounding painfully hard (the lateness of the hour still hadn’t occurred to him), he opened it and stepped inside. 

Both relief and disappointment flooded him when he saw the room empty. Bucky flipped on the overhead lights, filling the room with dull fluorescents. The sheets on the bed were pulled tight. Without wrinkles, it would be easy to believe it had never been slept in. Like the rest of the apartment, the room was devoid of personal artifacts apart from a photo laying upside down on the nightstand. His desk was neat, cups of colored pencils and markers lined up against the wall. Bucky was on course to look at the photo, wanting to know what Grant looked like, when he saw the sketchbook laying closed on the center of the desk. 

It was like a magnet pulled him forward. He knew he shouldn’t, he knew how betrayed he would feel if he knew anyone had gone through his journal, but it was like someone had taken control of his limbs. Bucky sat at the desk and flipped open the sketchbook. The first page held nothing but a half-finished sketch. 

If Bucky had to guess based off the empty outline, it was a monkey riding the unicycle. There were points where the pencil had pressed so heavily the lead had pierced the page. Likewise, there were places where the pencil was so light Bucky could barely see it. The empty space of the face looked to be ripped and smoothed back, as if it had been erased one too many times. 

Bucky stared at the sketch, heart in his throat and feeling like he was going to throw up. The sketch had to be made for him. It had to be. There was no other explanation he could devise. It was a perfect expression of his life. Half finished, forced to wear a mask (both literally and figuratively) he’d never wanted to don, pushed through paces he was never designed to finish. Erased so many times he felt like a sieve, memories constantly flooding in and disappearing. Pushed so hard he broke and yet a ghost in his own life. Before he knew what he was doing, he ripped the page from the book. The rest of the pages were blank. 

And then everything became too much. He stumbled out of Grant’s apartment, barely remembering to turn off lights, and returned to his room, collapsing on his bed. After a moment alone in his brain, Bucky took the sketch from where he didn’t remember setting it on his nightstand, and continued staring. 

The simple lines reminded him of Steve’s first sketches, right after he’d decided he wanted to be an artist. He’d just sat in front of simple objects for hours, making attempt after attempt to recreate it on the newspapers Bucky had stolen from the bins. His one philosophy had been to never erase, saying that each mistake was a path forward. Bucky had just watched, amazed at how he’d never gotten bored and mesmerized by the beauty. 

He wondered if Steve and Grant knew each other. If buying that painting had been on a whim like Bucky or if it had been planned; if there had been conversation before Grant had left the tent. If they shared stories of their similar lives. The thought of them together (in his mind, they looked very similar (and maybe that should tell Bucky something of who he really wanted, but he ignored that like he ignored so many things)), made his heart burn.

It was strange, this feeling of being pulled toward two men. If it were any other day but today, it would terrify him. And don’t get him wrong, it still did, but not in the way he would’ve expected. Rather than expecting to be cast out and beaten to an inch of his life, what he feared more than anything was that he would be rejected by both of them. But another fear, one that he tried not to dwell on, was that if he was able to fix things with Steve and Grant finally decided to have a conversation with Bucky face to face, that the two of them would take more to each other and shove Bucky to the side. Because while being loved by one of the two men would satisfy something deep within his soul, all Bucky really wanted was to be accepted for the man he was now. He wanted to leave the mask and unicycle behind. He wanted to walk tall without fear. He wanted his life to no longer be half finished, and he wanted to be the one holding the pencil.

Once again too overwhelmed by everything, he set the sketch back on his nightstand and forced himself to sit cross legged. Closing his eyes, he tried to slow his breathing. When it only grew more ragged, he groped for the phone he’d flung across his bed after Natasha’s text. Soft Gaelic soon filled his room. Almost at once, his breathing quieted. If he tried to imagine it was Grant singing, that was just for him to know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise things will start getting happier soon. I hope. The soundtrack for this chapter is, of course, Folklore by Taylor Swift. The entire album is basically the beginning of this fic so far, so that's fun. 
> 
> So I'm moving this weekend and I have a full-time job, so I really appreciate you being patient with me as I work through my life going from zero to 100 real fuckin' fast.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I'm underwater, like the whole world is underwater, like I'm screaming underwater
> 
> Warning: This is a heavy chapter. Throughout Steve's section (the second part of this chapter) there is talk of suicide, and feelings of helplessness and a desire for things to be over. 
> 
> A summary of that section will be in the endnotes, if your mental health won't allow you to read the full thing.

Every Saturday and Sunday for the next five weeks, Bucky faced elation and disappointment at the farmers market. The first weekend, Dottie only let him stand in the empty lot for a minute before calling him over to help her with her flowers. The next four, his girl was there alone. 

He talked to her a few times. Found out her name was Addison. Bucky despised how nice she was, at how kind her voice was. He wanted to hate her, but she made it hard. It was with ire that he came to the conclusion that they could’ve been friends had they met under different circumstances. She almost seemed sad when he left the tent to go help Dottie. 

Dottie was relentlessly cheerful. It was impossible to wallow around her. With the way she chattered, Bucky wondered if she knew Steve was something more to him. Either way, he returned home every weekend with a new bouquet and remembering what it was to be loved. 

“He’ll show eventually, dear,” Dottie told him at the end of the sixth week. Late August sun glared down from the parched sky, made beautiful only by the leaves that filtered it. “He’s been gone for almost a full summer before, but he always comes back.” She handed a customer his change. “I think he comes back because he misses me,” she said with a cheeky grin, flouncing her hair.

Bucky rolled his eyes, allowing a small smile to cross his lips. His stomach remained heavy. He knew he should take Steve’s absence as a sign that Steve didn’t want to talk to him. (Even though he’d gone through the effort to make sure he wouldn’t be recognized by anyone who didn’t already know him, he assumed the reason Steve was gone was because Addison told him he was poking around.) But by the gods Bucky debated existed, he needed to talk to someone who understood. 

For the past six weeks, Grant’s apartment had been silent. The sketch Bucky had stolen felt like a sin. 

He slept every night now—he had no choice. Nightmares dragged him down no matter how he screamed. They liked to hear him suffer. After all, it was what he deserved. When he woke in the nebulous hours of dark morning, his throat was raw. It was amazing he could still talk at all. 

He tried listening to Celtic lullabies, hoping the lilting Gaelic would soothe him the way it had before. He would close his eyes and pretend that the voices were real. The only problem was that they weren’t Grant. But that was a lie. When it came to the language, there was truly only one person he wanted to hear speak it. Bucky knew, without a doubt, he would never hear Steve speak it again. 

“Bucky, dear, you really shouldn’t put yourself in a dither over this,” Dottie said. 

Bucky blinked, realizing he’d been staring at the grass for the past however long. He shook his head and tucked his hair behind his ears in an attempt to hide how his hands were shaking. 

“I was just thinking about something else,” he lied, happy his voice stayed steady. “Trying to remember everything I wanted to get done today. My memory isn’t the same since coming home.” 

Dottie nodded sympathetically and handed another customer their change. 

“I’m going to head out,” he told her. “I need to get my groceries, and want to pick up a few other things before the shops close.” 

It was another lie. He’d gotten his groceries on Friday after work. He just needed to do something. He needed to be alone. He needed to- Christ, he didn’t even know what he needed. 

“Don’t be a stranger,” Dottie said. 

“You know me,” Bucky replied, pressing a kiss to her papery cheek. “Always there for my best girl.” 

She waved him off and the smile he wore when he exited the tent was true. It was good to know that something good still existed from his time. It made him feel like there was still a reason he existed. Even if the war hadn’t happened, even if he’d never become the Soldier, there was a good chance he’d still be alive. It settled something in him he hadn’t realized needed settling. 

Bucky walked slowly through the rows, breathing deeply the earthy scents of the vegetables surrounding him. He didn’t need anything more—his pantry was fully stocked (past fully stocked, actually)—but the aroma soothed him. Other people walked past him without so much as a glance. If they did look at him, it was more so in confusion over his choice of a sweatshirt in the late heat of August. 

He knew it made him gross and smelly, but Bucky enjoyed sweating. Well, enjoyed wasn’t the right word. Nobody enjoys sweating unless they’re in a gym and trying to work up a sweat. Bucky more so enjoyed the concept of it; the feeling of a bead of sweat trickling between his shoulder blades. He enjoyed not being cold. So he wore sweatshirts and sweaters in the middle of a New York summer. He told himself it had nothing to do with the metal monstrosity that served as his left arm. 

It wasn’t that Bucky hated his arm. Anymore. He had at first. And who wouldn’t? After falling from the train, after the sickening pain of his forearm being ripped away, after seeing that they had taken more away from him just because they could, he hadn’t been able to look at it without bile rising up in his throat. Whenever he’d saw the thick ridges of scar extending toward his heart, he remembered the desperate fear of wanting it off. He’d remembered the willingness to maim himself if it meant it was off.

It was better now. Really. There were still days he wished he could take it off, but it wasn’t because he hated it. It was because it was heavy, and he was in pain every day. 

It wasn’t because he was ashamed of what it represented. 

It was better if he kept it hidden. 

Unbidden, his fingers found the ridge where his skin and the metal were soldered. They pressed, feeling the tight muscles from where the metal pulled. The relief that came lasted for only seconds. 

He wondered if he showed himself at Avengers Tower if Tony Stark would remove it before handing him over to the authorities. He wondered if Tony knew that he’d been orphaned because of him. He wondered a lot of things. 

He wondered what his life would’ve been if Steve hadn’t kissed him. He wondered what his life would’ve been if he’d joined the Howling Commandos. He wondered what his life would’ve been if he’d had to listen to Steve as he’d crashed the plane. He wondered if he’d still be alive. He wondered why he was still alive now. 

He would be lying if he said he’d never thought about it. In the first year after D.C., he’d thought about it a lot. He thought about how much trouble he’d be saving everyone. He thought about how easy it would be. And that was what stayed his hand. What had he done to warrant an easy release? Staying alive was more of a punishment than dying. And once he remembered what it was like to really live again, he wanted to. He wanted to remember what it was like waking up in the sun. He wanted to remember what it was like to walk in the fresh air, at his own pace, without any mission dictating where he was going. He wanted to remember what it was like to make his own food. He wanted to remember what it was like to be happy. 

And despite the thoughts to spun through his mind; despite the nightmares that made him terrified to sleep; despite the fear that even if he was able to see Steve again, he’d make it very clear he wasn’t able to forgive him; despite the world being very clear that it still hated the Soldier, he was starting to remember what it was like. 

He remembered what it was like when he was at the deli and little kids smiled at him. He remembered what it was like when he passed by the shelter on the way home from work and popped in to say hi to the animals. He remembered it when he returned to the apartment that was  _ his _ . He remembered when he read about the lives of people who were like him and realized not only was he actually okay with being gay, he was proud of it. He remembered when he heard Grant’s voice through the wall; when they made the other laugh and Bucky couldn’t get his smile to leave for hours afterward. 

If it wasn’t for his nightmares, for being strapped down in the chair that further destroyed him every time they used it, for the scalpels and needles and poisons that carved through him; if it weren’t for the guilt that accompanied every laugh, every smile, every sense that maybe he can move forward, he thought that maybe he’d be able to make happiness his default emotion. 

Because wouldn’t that just be the kicker? Hydra had done everything they could possibly think of to take away his life. They’d carved away his memories of love and goodness; they’d forced him to kill innocents; they’d tortured him and starved him and took away every reason to stay alive. They’d tried to break him in every way possible. They’d done everything, and he was able to live his life in pure joy. It would be the ultimate message that they had failed. 

One day. One day that would be him. One day his life would be the ultimate  _ fuck you _ to the institution that had tried to rule the world with him as their insurance. 

But now, he wandered through the farmers market, sweat dripping between his shoulder blades, shoulder aching, burning with the fact that he was alive. 

His brain still spiraled, he still hated himself sometimes, he still wished he hadn’t fucked up with Steve, but he was alive. And as long as he was alive, he was able to change those things. They might take time, but time was something he had. 

***

A month. That’s how long Steve had slept in the woods. That’s how long he’d gone without a properly cooked meal because no one on the team really knew how to cook. That’s how long he went without a real shower to scrape away the grime that coated every inch of his body. That’s how long he went without wearing clothes he didn’t want to burn. That’s how long he’d gone without being alone. That’s how long he’d gone without feeling safe. 

A month ago, Tony had intercepted an encoded message between Hydra control and a base they’d long suspected. So they’d gone in. Natasha and Clint had easily wormed their way in as low levels, and were able to feed them information first hand. But Steve was recognizable. Steve needed to stay behind to call the shots. Steve needed to take all the information he was given and make the connections he’d been created to be able to make. So: a month in the woods because the entire town the company housed themselves in was a front. 

They hadn’t wanted to make a scene, so they hadn’t. At first. Meaning, Tony hadn’t blown anything up. At first. They’d been on their way out when a Hydra goon decided to shoot a bazooka at the entire team when their back had been turned, walking away with a long suspected operative in chains. Steve had managed to get between them just in time. He didn’t know which was worse, breaking his arm and two ribs when the shock wave sent him flying into a tree, Natasha yelling at him for how stupid he was, or how Natasha’s reaction reminded him of Bucky. 

But they were on their way home now. And while he would normally go to the apartment after returning home from a mission, he needed Addison. He needed someone to hold him. He needed someone to remind him what it was like to be home. He needed to not be alone so someone else could watch the door so he could feel safe. 

Bruce hovered, wringing his hands and looking sick. They hadn’t wanted a Code Green. After the bazooka, they hadn’t had a choice. Steve had taken a sick joy in watching the Hulk tear through the fake city and the men he’d been fighting for over seventy years, but he knew each life he took haunted Bruce. He hadn’t wanted any of this. He’d been brought aboard the team only to help them find the Tesseract. Offering up the Hulk to fight had never been part of the bargain. 

Steve rested his head against the back of his seat, groaning at the sickening pain of his right arm and ribs. They were bad breaks. He knew he was lucky that his ribs hadn’t punctured his lungs, and even with his level of healing, it would take at least two weeks in a cast and sling for his arm to be okay enough to even start using again. 

The thought that it would be at least two weeks before he could make art again hurt him more than anything else. 

“How are you doing?” Natasha dropped herself into the seat next to him. For once, there wasn’t a mask over her face to hide how she was really feeling. Steve would never get used to seeing this level of vulnerability on her. It was more frightening than anything. 

“Better me like this than the whole team gone,” he muttered. 

“Have you thought what the team would be like with you gone?” she asked, and then she shook her head. “No, of course you didn’t. When do you ever give a damn about your own safety?” 

“Were you going to let me answer?” 

“You’re going to tell me that you had a different answer?” 

“Would you rather be dead, Nat?” he asked. He was too tired and in too much pain to get angry. “Because that’s what would’ve happened if I hadn’t done what I’d done. I’m fine.” 

“Are you, Steve?” Her sharp gaze hurt more than all his injuries put together. Those he could ignore. Her gaze he couldn’t. “Because this seems to be happening more and more often. Yeah, sure, you were saving us, whatever. Do you actually want to make it home?” 

Steve found he couldn’t answer. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t have an answer. He stared at the ground. 

“Do we need to be worried about you, Steve?” 

_ “Are you trying to get yourself killed, Steve?” Bucky pulled him back by his shirt, forcing him into the solidness of his broad chest.  _

_ Steve wiped blood away from his mouth and nose.  _

“I’m okay. I’m just tired.” 

It was true. He  _ was _ tired. Of a lot of things. He was tired of this feeling like he didn’t belong. Tired of feeling like people never wanted him for him, but for Captain America. Tired of feeling like he was running from a past he can never escape. Tired of feeling like he was waiting for something that would never happen. 

“Steve, do we-” she stopped. “Do I have to worry that this is how every mission will end? Do I have to worry that one mission they’ll succeed, or you’ll succeed, and we’ll be bringing back your dead body rather than just your injured one?” 

Steve looked up and his heart jolted at the expression on her face. Her eyebrows were pinched together, and her mouth was a thin line, and her eyes were too bright. And that was when he realized that for the first time, he was seeing Natasha scared. Or more accurately, Natasha was allowing him to see her scared. Somehow, that was so much worse because it was being used to make a point. 

“I-” he licked his lips, coating his tongue in the saltiness of his own blood. “I’ve never been told that I can value my life,” he whispered. “No one has ever actually cared.” 

“Why do you think I’m here, Steve?” Her voice sounded strangely close to cracking. “Why do you think Addison is waiting at the Tower? Why do you think I’m-we care, Steve. Apparently more than you.” 

She stood and walked back to the cockpit, dropping into the empty seat next to Tony. Steve knew he fucked up if Natasha would rather face time with Tony than continue sitting with him. He rubbed his left hand over his face, wanting nothing more than to get home. 

They landed four hours later. He leaned heavily on Natasha as they walked from the landing pad into the elevator, barely avoiding stumbling on his own feet he was in so much pain. A sick pounding had replaced his head. 

“Med Bay, Jarvis,” Natasha said once the doors shut behind them. 

“Certainly, Agent Romanoff.” There was something about the calm, collected voice of Jarvis that soothed Steve. “I would suggest taking more care on future missions, Captain,” he said as the doors opened again.

Steve just nodded and let Natasha help him forward. He was glad the jacket of his suit had come off in the quinjet, so all he had to do when he got to the bed was sit. They cut off his grimy undershirt. He’d planned on burning it anyway. Thought was hard. An exam would probably confirm he had a concussion. 

Something cold and wet rubbed his left wrist. He barely felt the prick of the needle as the IV was set. There was nothing. And then numbness spread. His pain decreased enough for him to not feel sick. Bright light shone into his eyes. He was told to follow a finger. Asked to state his name, his birthdate, the day and year, and who the president was. He indeed had a concussion. A mild one, somehow. 

His arm was set. His ribs bound. More fluids and pain medication were hung. 

When the door was shut to give him privacy for the night, he realized he didn’t know when Addison had replaced Natasha. He didn’t really remember a lot from the past hour. Maybe he’d talked, maybe he hadn’t. Wordlessly, he let her take off his tac pants and help him into sweatpants. She ran a washcloth over his face. Helped him brush his teeth. 

And then the lights were off. He was under the starchy covers. The machine beside his bed blinked. Addison curled up next to him, her hand in his. Light lips pressed against his knuckles. 

The next thing he knew, it was the next day. Exhaustion still dragged him down, and he still felt like he’d been hit by a bus, but he could exist without it being a struggle. As soon as he’d been cleared to leave (under the stern orders that he wasn’t allowed to leave the Tower), he’d let Addison help him to his quarters, where he stood under the soft spray of the shower until he needed to sit, and then sat until he felt like he was drowning. It was only then that he clumsily washed his hair and removed the rest of the grime that he’d been half convinced was a permanent part of his skin. 

He stood in front of the steamed mirror until it had sweat enough to reveal his face. And then he understood why Natasha had looked the way she had. Deep purple bruising covered his entire right side. His face was swollen where it had hit the ground after he’d hit the tree, his lip split and tender. Both of his eyes were blackened. 

Even by his standards, he looked bad. 

Better him than the rest of the team. 

Steve pulled on some sweatpants and a sweatshirt to cover the worst of it. Out of sight, out of mind. He ached. 

Addison was waiting for him on their bed when he finally left the bathroom. She stared at the floor, twisting one of her rings. Steve sat beside her and took her hand. 

“Natasha told me what happened,” she said. Her voice was tight. She didn’t look at him. Steve didn’t want her to look at him. “She told me how you jumped in front of it. How there was time for the team to get out of the way. She’s worried about you. So am I.” 

Now she looked up. Steve looked down. Shame boiled in him, but at least that was better than numbness. 

“Steve, do I have to be worried that you’re not going to come home one day? Do I need to worry that you’re going to purposefully get yourself killed? Do you-” she swallowed. “Do you want to die, Steve?” 

_ “Are you trying to get yourself killed, Steve?” Bucky pulled him back, trapping him against his broad chest. The feel of it, Bucky’s arms around him to prevent him from running off, was enough to chase away the anger storming in his brain. The ground was solid beneath him again.  _

There was nothing solid to hold him up now. There was just the air, and how it always failed him. He felt himself slipping, but slipping towards what he didn’t know. He felt weightless. He felt cemented. He was stuck in his brain without a body. He was stuck in a body without any way to control it. 

“I-” he didn’t know what he was trying to say. His mouth moved without a voice. “I’m just exhausted,” he finally was able to whisper. “Of everything. I just want it to be done. I want to feel like I belong. I want my time. I want-” 

His voice failed him before he could say it. It was a complicated want, one that played cruelly with his heart. 

“You want Bucky, I know. He was all you talked about in your sleep last night.” 

Now that she’d said it, he remembered. He couldn’t remember if it was happy or a nightmare. He just remembered that Bucky had been there. Steve had been reaching some out in some way. 

He hated him and loved him. Wanted him and wanted nothing to do with him. He hated that he didn’t know. He hated that in some way, this was his fault; he’d never given Bucky the chance. He’d known the words Bucky had said were his father’s— he’d known George Barnes long enough to know his language. He knew the lips that had pressed against his were wanting. He’d seen the pain and confusion in Bucky’s eyes when he’d told Steve he couldn’t love him. But Steve also knew the damage that had done to his own heart. 

He hated that he didn’t know what he wanted. Hated that if Bucky came back and asked if they could talk, he’d give him a chance. Hated that he still loved him. Even after everything, he was the only thing from his own time that still existed, and he needed that. He needed to know there was a reason for all of it, and if he wasn’t the only one who’d evaded death, that had to mean something, right? Maybe, it was just the idea that he wouldn’t be alone in the gravitas of knowing he shouldn’t exist. Maybe he didn’t miss his time as much as he missed the people from his time. His ma, Peggy, the Howlies. 

Bucky. As much as he hated it, Bucky.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, because what else could he say? 

“Am I ever going to be enough?” 

And to that, Steve couldn’t answer. He wanted her to be. He loved her. She’d calmed the fear that no one would be able to love him—the real him; the man who suffered; the anxiousness, the fear, the anger. She’d taken all of that in stride and helped him fashion it into something constructive. He’d been happy, truly, fully happy, with her. But even then, he wanted- 

God, how he hated he was like this. His life was here. Now. Why couldn’t it be enough? Why did he feel like he was drowning sitting on this bed beside the woman he knew he loved—the woman who had been nothing but gentle and patient and kind to him? 

“I do love you,” Steve told her. And somehow in saying that, he divined clarity. He didn’t know if it was the truth, but it felt truthful. “The reason I want to talk to Bucky again is so I can finally let him go. He was my everything for so long, and everything he’s been through is some fault of mine. I just want to see if he’s okay.” 

“That doesn’t answer my question, Steve. I’m tired. I love you, and I want to make this work, but I’m exhausted. I worry when you’re on missions because you’re putting yourself in danger, and I knew that was part of the deal of getting to be with you. I need to know if you coming home like this is going to be a new normal, because if it is, I don’t know if I can do it. I already worry you’re not going to come home. I can’t add ‘because you’re throwing yourself in front of a missile’ to the end of that sentence. I just can’t.” 

“I want you to be enough,” Steve said. “I do. This mission...it was-” he took his left hand back to scrub it over his face, wincing at (but also relishing) the pain it brought. “It was bad. It was really bad. Being left out there hanging for a month, not being able to reach out. I didn’t sleep most nights, and when I did, my nightmares were bad. The team was dead, and it was my fault. When I first saw the missile, I thought it was another dream, but I started running anyway, and I found I wasn’t running through water. And then I was in between.” 

Her hand was in his again, though he didn’t remember taking it. Or maybe she took his. He didn’t know which one meant more. 

“I don’t want to die, I don’t think. But if I was going to, that’s how I would want to. Putting myself between the danger and my family. Better me than them.” 

It took him awhile to realize that Addison was crying. Not because he didn’t care, but because he wasn’t in the room, not really. He wanted to sleep. He wanted things to go back to normal, to the way they had been before he thought he’d seen Bucky at the farmers market and his entire world split apart. 

“No,” she was saying when he came back into his body. “That’s the problem, Steve. Your life is worth something. It’s not just something you have to throw away for the sake of others.” 

_ “How do you think I’d feel if you didn’t come home one day because you feel like you have to prove yourself?” Bucky sat in the chair across from him, Steve’s arm across his lap as he cleaned up the latest round of injuries from his last fight. “Why are you just throwing your life away?”  _

_ “I’m not throwing it away,” Steve said.  _ “I’m giving it a purpose when for so long I was told it had none.” 

“Is being loved and cherished not purpose enough?” Addison asked. “Is spreading kindness and joy not purpose enough? Is being happy not purpose enough?” 

He let the words sit with him, let them tether him to the moment, let them make him wonder if they could ever be enough. “I want it to be.” 

“Then let me be enough,” she said, her voice tired. “Let go of the fairytale notion that everything would be made better by this man coming back into your life. He hurt you, Steve. Just look at what happened just by seeing someone who looked like him. He doesn’t deserve your time and energy. You don’t even know if you’ll ever see him again.” 

“But I hurt him, too.” He really didn’t understand his need to defend Bucky. In all objectivity, he knew she was right. A part of him wanted to follow her advice and just let it go. He just couldn’t. “This is something I need to make right. Even if it’s just to say goodbye, I need to see him again. It’s the only way I can let it go.” 

She said nothing in return. She just sat there, her hand in his, shoulders curled inwards. 

Steve didn’t want to die, he didn’t think, but right now anything would be better than sitting here with numbness and everything warring inside of him. His body ached. The pain was the only reason he knew he still existed. 

He didn’t know how long they sat there. It could have been minutes, hours, days. Time passed and it didn’t. They lived the same minute over and over again. Hours skipped over each other and circled back. Steve both lived every second and escaped it. He was so tired. 

Eventually, Addison got up and left the room. Steve couldn’t bring himself to follow. He curled onto his side, ignoring the white hot pain that lit his entire body. He wanted to sleep, but he found himself staring blankly at the wall every time he tried to close his eyes. When he heard the door open and close, he figured it was just a trick of the mind. When she sat beside him, a tray of food in hand, he felt tears prick and fall. What had he done to deserve any of this? 

She helped him sit up and spooned the soup into his mouth. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he had something in his stomach. 

“I don’t like any of this,” she said quietly, cupping the empty bowl in her hands, “but I knew when I moved into the Tower that nothing would be easy. Your life, what you’ve been through, it’s nothing I can even bring myself to imagine. I don’t like that you want to open yourself up to this man again after everything he’s done to you. But I’m not going to abandon you the way he did. I’m willing to work through this, if you are.” 

The relief that ran through him was healing. He hadn’t known if he would want to run if he was given the option. “I want you by my side,” he said, just as quiet. “I don’t know if that’s selfish, but I don’t want to be alone.” 

Addison rested a hand on his cheek and very gently pressed her lips to his. The twist in his stomach when they parted made him wonder if he’d made the right choice. 

***

It was all over the news: Captain America and the Avengers had taken down yet another hidden branch of Hydra masquerading in corporate America. The weeks of him missing from the market finally slipped into place. Somehow, Bucky had never let himself think a mission could be the reason. It had always been about him. He was selfish that way. 

CNN talked about it endlessly. Stark and Natasha appeared for interviews. Bucky didn’t listen to them for the information they provided on Hydra; he waited for them to answer a question on why Steve was absent from any press conference. He was the face of the team. But they said nothing, and a new worry started eating its way through his stomach. 

It would be breaking news if Captain America had been killed in action. Bucky would know if Steve was dead. He knew he would. But if he was injured—if he was in a coma, or had needed life-saving surgery—there’s no way the rest of the world would be allowed to know about that. Steve was the face of the team. If anyone knew he had so much as a papercut, hell would rain down on New York. 

So Bucky forced himself to live his life as normal as possible. He went to work at the Deli. He cooked himself dinners that could easy feed at least three people. He wrote in his journal. He suffered through nightmares and sat in the silence that meant Grant wasn’t home. 

He went on walks. He walked places that would’ve been better traveled to on his bike. He walked to places he wouldn’t know existed if he rode his bike. It was on a day like this that his life flipped upside down. Or maybe, it flipped rightside up. 

He was walking with a bag of groceries in hand when he saw them walking up the street. It was so unmistakably Steve that time felt like it reversed. His right arm was in a sling. Healing bruises mottled his face and neck (and probably the rest of his body too, if Bucky wasn’t mistaken (and it was Steve, so he wasn’t)). He looked so violently like he did after Bucky pulled him out of back alleys that he needed to remember times had changed. 

Bucky only knew he’d stopped walking because of the people jostling past him. Some cursed him. Some purposefully banged into him. Others, more considerate, adjusted their path to accommodate him. 

Steve’s hand was in Addison’s. Both of them looked tired, but they both smiled. She said something and Steve tipped his head back and laughed. And oh, oh how Bucky had missed that laugh. Steve could cure the world with that laugh. Starving and full and loud and present. Something in him settled. 

Steve looked up. Their eyes locked. The smile on his face slipped. Bucky watched as Steve Rogers breathed. Watched as Steve Rogers allowed himself to break and right himself within the space of a single breath. 

He didn’t know who walked to who. Maybe they met in the middle. Bucky didn’t know if it mattered. What mattered was that Steve was there. Solid. Real. There. Real. Bruised, and battered, and there. His eyes were the same, maybe a little tired and strained, maybe there were fine lines around the corners, but they were the same blue. Seaglass blue, Steve had told him once, even though he’d never been able to see the true color. There was still the same faint scar above his lip from where he’d cut it on a broken beer bottle. 

“Steve?” It was surprising to him that his voice actually worked. When they met in his dreams, he was always rendered mute. 

At first, he didn’t know if Steve was going to acknowledge him. The eyes that stared into his were the same eyes that had stared at him that day in 1941. Anger, hurt, confusion. Love. 

And then. “Bucky?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: Anyway- Kerrigan + Lowdermilk
> 
> Summary of Steve's section: The team was on a mission that went sour. He jumped in front of a bazooka missile to protect the team and broke his arm and two ribs. Natasha confronts him about it. Back at the tower, Addison confronts him about it. They both ask if he's trying to get himself killed. Steve admits that he wants Bucky back in his life.   
> _
> 
> So remember how I said I had a job? Well, corporate decided to say a big fuck you to our location and shut us down. Hello again, unemployment. Hello again, Darkness, my old friend. (don't worry, I'm okay. Angry, but okay).
> 
> That being said, I'm either going to be on an awesome posting schedule, or I'll be flakey. Don't know what I'll be motivated to do. Maybe leaving on a cliffhanger will push me to actually write the conversation that I've built up to. 
> 
> Thank you for being patient. I love you all <3 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr @padfoot-and-the-marauders


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There must be forgiveness here cause most of us have our weaknesses/(Tell me what are your weaknesses)

It was the first day Steve had been allowed to leave the Tower since the mission. Normally, he wouldn’t have given any stock to the thin rules written to keep him in line, but Steve understood that he had crossed a line. And while he was positive that everything he’d done had been solely for the protection of the team, it had taken him time to be sure of the truth of that answer. 

It’s a common myth that Steven Grant Rogers, commonly known to the public as Captain America, doesn’t lie. To put the records straight, that’s a lie. He did. Mostly to himself. He’d gotten good at convincing himself it was the truth. 

But this time, he was sure. He hadn’t thrown himself in front of the missile because he wanted to die. He’d done it to ensure the safety of his team. For all his anxiety and overwhelming fear that this time would never be his own, he didn’t want to die. He wanted the future he’d imagined for himself when he’d been sick in bed. It had changed, slightly, (of course, it had needed to—even with Steve’s creative mind, he wouldn’t have been able to imagine this), but the crux of it was the same. 

For as long as he could remember, he’d had this image in his head. It was always in shades of yellow and gold. Friends around a dinner table. Laughter. Music in the background. Someone wrapping their arms around his back. 

He didn’t want to die because he wanted that. But he didn’t know how to explain that to anyone, because it wasn’t so much a scene as it was a feeling. Warmth. Happiness. The sense that everything was going to be okay. 

He didn’t know who the people in the vision were; their faces were always obscured, but that didn’t frighten him. He would know when he was supposed to know. Until then, he just needed to live his life. 

Which was why he was out with Addison, just walking the streets. He needed to just be Steve Rogers for a few hours. It was the only time he didn’t care that New York couldn’t care less about Steve Rogers. They knew who he was, they just didn’t give a damn. How he hated it until he didn’t. 

His body still ached. His arm and ribs were still very much broken (though healing). Given everything that had happened, he was okay. And the sun was shining. Late August decided to be kind, and the light breeze actually made it so he was a little cold. He could dress in a pair of comfortable jeans and a sweatshirt, a hat pressed over his hair, and be happy. So he was. 

They had no destination when they set out from the Tower, so of course they ended up in Brooklyn. Addison knew how much Steve liked to walk, so there was no tone of surprise when they ended up on the Brooklyn Bridge, leaving the bustling noise of Manhattan behind. For most of the day, they didn’t talk. They enjoyed the feeling of each other’s company, occasionally catching the other smiling the way they did when they thought no one was watching. 

It was a good afternoon. 

And then they turned down a street lined with brownstones and shaded by towering oaks. Steve had always thought living in one of these houses would mean he’d made it. Maybe he still did. They’d always seemed so cozy in the winter, with warm light spilling onto the frozen streets. 

Addison said something and Steve tipped his head back and laughed. The full-body action of it brought another round of bright pain, but he didn’t care. He was here, in a city he loved, laughing. He was alive. Despite everything, he was alive. 

And then he looked ahead. And he was there. He wore a red henley and a pair of dark jeans. His hair curled gently above his shoulder, half of it pulled back into a bun that sat on the crown of his head. He looked... good. He looked really good.

Steve stopped walking. He didn’t breathe. Addison looked at him. Steve looked at Bucky. 

For all his thinking and knowing that he wanted to see him, Steve wasn’t prepared. For all his thinking and knowing, he hadn’t known the way his heart would stop; how he’d need to remember to draw breath into his lungs because even after everything, Bucky still managed to steal it. 

He didn’t know how it happened, but they were standing in front of each other. Phantom forms passed on either side of them. Addison’s hand in his was the only reason he didn’t reach out to see if any of this was real. 

“Steve?” he said. It was the voice that haunted his nightmares and blessed his dreams. 

He stared. Bucky’s eyes were sad. His eyebrows pitched forward. 

“Bucky?” 

The breath Bucky had matched Steve’s. It was shaky and grounding and the realization that this was real. Both of them were here. Both of them were alive. 

Bucky ran his right hand through his hair, chuckling nervously. “Yeah.” 

“How-how are you?” 

He’d known it was going to be hard. This was impossible. 

“Okay, I think. Considering...” he waved his left hand vaguely. “Are you?” 

Steve felt each beat of his heart in his throat. Hot and heavy. He swallowed. “Fine.” 

They both licked their lips. Everything he wanted to say screamed at him. His hand shifted inside Addison’s. She put her free hand on his elbow. Reassuring. Possessive. 

Bucky shifted the bag of groceries in his arm. “Um. My apartment isn’t too far if you wanted to — talk.” The sentence ended lamely. 

His heart leaped at the idea, and then it remembered. “No.” 

Bucky’s expression fell, but he nodded. 

“No—I want to talk. Just not there. I don’t think, with everything, that would be best.” He didn’t want to know where Bucky lived. He didn’t know what self-control he’d have if he had that information.

Bucky’s expression lifted slightly. “There’s the park.” 

Steve couldn’t help the little laugh that came out. Of course, there was the park. Bucky didn’t even have to say which one. There had always only been the one. The one where they became friends. The one where they fought. The one that was everything.   
“Yeah. The park’s good.” 

Bucky nodded. “I-I’ll meet you there?” He lifted his bag of groceries in explanation. 

Steve could only nod in response. 

They just stood there for a while longer, just staring, trying to comprehend the fact that the other was there. Trying to comprehend the fact that this was real. Finally, Bucky nodded again and readjusted his bag. 

“I should be there in twenty minutes, give or take.” 

“I’ll be there.”  _ I think.  _

And with another small nod, Bucky kept walking. Steve turned to watch him until he disappeared down a side street. 

“You’re not actually going, are you?” Addison watched him with a strange expression in her eyes. Steve would later learn it was a mixture of disgust, sadness, and jealousy. 

“I am. I need to. You know I do.” 

“Steve, you were happy until he showed up and you caught a glimpse. You went through hell because of him. And now you’re willingly going to walk back into it?” 

“I’ve already done it once,” he replied softly. “The fire hasn’t gone out yet, so what’s the damage?” 

She just looked at him. She shook her head. “I can’t follow you into this. I’m not going to this park to watch you throw away everything you’ve managed to regain.” 

“I wasn’t going to ask you to come.”

Addison took a small step back as if those words had physically touched her. She looked down at their hands. Somehow, they were still linked. She took hers back. 

“I’ll see you at the Tower,” she said. Without waiting for Steve’s reply, she stepped up to the curb and flagged a cab. Without looking back, she got in the back. Without looking back, the car was gone. 

Steve had to remember how to move. He had to remember that he was still standing in the middle of a sidewalk in Brooklyn, people passing by on either side of him. He had to remember that this was what he’d wanted. 

So then why did it hurt so much? 

He turned and started to walk. He didn’t remember the journey to the park, but he knew the minute he was there. It wasn’t so much a park as it was a small stretch of flattened grass. A few trees dotted here and there, but that was it. Steve found himself sitting against the trunk of one. 

_ “Come on, Steve! The pirates’ll get us if you don’t hurry!” Bucky charged ahead of him, laughter trailing.  _

_ Steve struggled to catch up. “It’s no use,” he yelled breathlessly. “We’ll just have to stand our ground and fight.” He stopped running, refusing to double over in his search for air.  _

_ Bucky doubled back, an easy grin crossing his face. He held two sticks in his hand, and tossed one to Steve. “‘Till the end?”  _

_ Steve caught his and nodded. “‘Till the end.”  _

_ Bucky’s face changed, a scowl replacing the grin. “Tell me where the treasure is, or your entire crew will walk the plank.”  _

_ “Never!”  _

_ Steve lunged forward, his stick hitting Bucky’s.  _

“You actually came. I didn’t think you would.” Bucky’s voice evaporated the mist figures of their childhood selves. 

Steve looked up. Once again, he had to catch his breath. Because Bucky was there. Really there. And he looked like himself, almost. If his hair was shorter, Steve would’ve almost been able to believe—what? That nothing had happened? 

“I didn’t either,” Steve admitted. He didn’t stand. He kept his knees against his chest, his left arm wrapped around them. It kept him in just enough pain to remember that all of this was real. 

Slowly, like he didn’t know if he was allowed to, Bucky lowered himself to the grass and sat cross legged. That had never changed. Nothing had changed. Deep down, they were still the kids they were so long ago. 

“How long have you been back?” Steve finally managed to ask. 

“June,” Bucky replied. “I was in Romania for a bit before, seeing if I could just make a completely new life, but it wasn’t-”

“Home,” Steve finished. He nodded. “Even Manhattan isn’t the same. Too clean.” 

Bucky snorted at that. That explosion of noise, unchanged and unexpected and so fully Bucky, split Steve’s heart. “Clean, yeah, sure. Is that why you don’t sketch it? You don’t know what to do without the ragged streets of Brooklyn?” 

“I sketch Manhattan!” He had—once. He’d sat at a cafe table outside Grand Central and worked the towering buildings onto the paper placemat. 

And now Bucky was grinning and Jesus Christ had Steve missed that smile. “We both know you get comfortable drawing one thing and that’s all you do.” 

“Maybe when I first started, but I actually have some talent now, Buck. Actually sell some of my art, the way I always told you I would.” 

Bucky’s grin disappeared a little. He bit the inside of his cheek. Steve realized he’d forgotten what was between them. He breathed a little harder. Pain flared in his chest, both in his ribs and his heart. 

“I bought one,” Bucky said quietly. “I didn’t know it was yours until I was back at my apartment.” 

“So it  _ was _ you. I thought-I didn’t know if I was going crazy. I-” Steve looked down, unable to look at the face he’d dreamt of most nights since that day. “I didn’t want it to be you.”

“I’m sorry. For a lot of things, I guess.” 

“Yeah.” 

“You could’ve left me trapped beneath that beam on the hellicarrier. You could’ve left me to die. Why didn’t you?”

Steve looked up again. Bucky twisted a blade of grass between his silver fingers. Hair escaped from the small bun, framing his face in little wisps.

“I don’t know.” 

It was a lie. He did know. It was because when he’d seen Bucky’s eyes, full of fear and desperation but accepting of the fate he knew was awaiting him, Steve’s anger broke. He’d known he’d never be able to forgive himself should that happen. He’d known he’d never have this chance to move forward. 

They were both quiet again. Steve wanted to leave, but he couldn’t get himself to move. 

“I was so fucking stupid, Steve,” Bucky finally said. Steve was glad to hear the self-loathing in the words. “I knew that the moment I let you walk away. I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought it would make things safer for you.” 

“I never cared about safe!” 

“I know, and that was the problem. I knew nothing would change that part of you, so I thought that if- I don’t know. I don’t know.” 

They stared at each other, hearts pounding and raw. 

“I put my heart on my sleeve-I risked my life, my safety, because what I felt for you was so strong,” Steve said, voice growing and breaking with every other word. “I can’t change the fact that you were too much of a coward to accept you felt the same.” 

Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed. “I was scared, Steve! You knew how I grew up, what-” 

“I grew up the same way, Bucky!” Steve yelled. He was standing. He didn’t remember moving. “I heard the same things you did, saw the bruises and the bloody faces of those who couldn’t hide it. You were just a coward. You knew you were in love with a man and you couldn’t face the implications.” 

“And what about you?” Bucky shot back. He was standing too, now. 

“What about me? I came to be at peace with what I was because I knew there was nothing wrong with me.” 

“Then why do you have a girlfriend if you’re not ashamed of being gay?” 

Steve knew Bucky regretted it the moment he said it. He watched the color drain from his face. Watched him try to backpedal, but the words were already there. They’d already done their damage. Except it wasn’t anger Steve felt; it was pity. 

“Because I’m not gay, Bucky. I’m bisexual.”

“Oh.” Bucky crumpled back to the grass, burying his head in his knees. “I’m such a fucking mess when it comes to you,” he whispered. “Why am I so scared to admit that I love you? I don’t deserve to. Or maybe it is what I deserve; to love you when I know that after everything I’ve done, I’ll be lucky if you ever want to talk to me again.” 

Steve had waited his entire life to hear Bucky say he loved him. But now it only hurt him more. “When did you know?” And why did he ask that? Because Bucky was going to say— 

“For forever. Because how could I not be? How could I be by your side every day and not be completely in love with you? You were amazing back then, Steve. Fire and wit and everything I wanted to be. And Jesus Christ, you don’t want to know any of this, I just-God-” Bucky scrubbed his hands over his face. 

Steve lowered himself back to the ground. He’d known. He’d known and he’d asked anyway. And he was twenty-three again, standing in the pouring rain, wearing his heart on his sleeve. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered. “I’m so sorry. That’s all I want you to know. I regret it every day, and I’m sorry. I don’t expect you to ever want to see me again. I just needed the chance to tell you that I’m sorry.” 

Steve was too tired to be angry anymore. The past was there. It would always be there. It was up to them whether it held any power. He didn’t want it to. He put his hand on Bucky’s arm. Bucky lifted his head, looking as if the touch was a cure he’d never expected to receive. 

“You hurt me,” Steve said. “There’s no way I can ignore that. But I’m willing to try again if you are.” 

Bucky’s face crumpled. A breath tore through him. Tears leaked from his closed lids. His left hand covered Steve’s hand on his arm. The metal was remarkably warm. He didn’t know how long they sat there like that.

“There’s a good coffee place on Lafayette,” Bucky eventually said, voice quiet. “I’m off every other Thursday.” 

“Coffee sounds good,” Steve replied. 

“I won’t blame you if you don’t show up,” Bucky told him. “But I’ll be there.” 

“I’ll be there.” God help him, but Steve would be there. Barring the world ending, he would be there.

They both breathed. They both stood. They both knew their time today was over. They watched the other. Bucky reached out a hand like he was offering a handshake, only to let it drop. Steve took a breath and finally listened to his heart. He took a step closer and wrapped his one arm around Bucky. And then he turned and walked away. 

Steve didn’t understand how the sun still had a place in the sky when he returned to the Tower. His conversation in the park had taken days. Years. Seconds. He was past exhausted. Every inch of him had been rolled out and run over and used and put back by someone who didn’t understand how he was built. His heart wasn’t supposed to feel like that—was it? He was used to it aching, but this was different. It felt lighter, somehow. 

He wanted nothing more than to pull out bags of chips and curl up on a couch with blankets and watch Robin Hood until someone (probably Tony) came and broke the disk. He needed familiarity. He needed- he didn’t even know. It would be one thing, and then it would be another. 

He was on his way back from the kitchen, chips and beverages in hand, when he passed by the ajar door to Natasha’s wing and heard the outburst and froze. 

“You told me he wasn’t back, Natasha! I asked you if Barnes was back. Multiple times I asked you if Barnes was back. You told me no. He’s been back for months.” 

“I had the situation under control, Addison.” 

Situation?

“So you lied to me.” 

“I believe I said the first person to know would be Steve—not you.” 

“You both knew?” 

He was in the doorway now, chips limply at his side. Both women whirled around to see him. Addison’s face was a mask of guilt. Natasha looked like—well, she looked like Natasha. More so than he’d seen in a while. 

“You both knew and you didn’t tell me?” He let all his emotions play over his face. He felt his mouth curl inwards and out as he tried to speak without tears blocking the words. “I trusted you.” 

Steve knew the blow hit its mark when Natasha took a small step back. Addison hadn’t moved. Her hand still covered her mouth. Steve turned and left, leaving the chips and beers on the shelf used to house a random assortment of Tony’s knickknacks. 

He was halfway through blindly packing a bag when he heard Addison. 

“I don’t understand how you knew for months and you didn’t tell me,” Steve said, not turning to look at her. He couldn’t. 

“I didn’t know it was him until today, I swear.” 

“From your conversation with Natasha, it seemed like you had a pretty good idea.” He grabbed a backpack and filled it with the art supplies he wouldn’t be able to use until his arm healed. 

“He’s been a regular at the market-” 

“Whom you never elected to talk about.” 

“When was I supposed to? You see a glimpse of this man and you go to pieces! You leave for a month and come back after launching yourself in front of a missile! When was I supposed to tell you that the man who bought a sketch in the middle of June was poking around?” 

He finally turned to face her. Her face was dry, but it was clear she’d been crying. “It’s my art, Addison. I deserved to know.” 

“Say in this theoretical world you’re crafting that there was a good chance for me to tell you. Do you honestly expect that I would’ve? He’s hurt you enough, Steve. If you knew, you would have launched yourself right back into the fray.” 

Steve zipped his bags and shouldered them. “At least the first time it was brought on by my choice. At least he was honest.” 

She stood in front of the door. “Steve, please.” 

“Let me go.” 

She stood there for another few seconds before stepping to the side. Steve swept by her without sparing a second glance. It seemed like years ago that they had been laughing together. 

He’d almost made it to the elevator. Natasha appeared from nowhere like she often seemed to do. 

“Steve.” 

“Don’t test me right now, Nat. You won’t like the outcome.” 

“You know it was the right choice.” 

“No, it wasn’t. Now get out of my way.” 

For a minute, it looked like she was going to fight him. And then she closed her eyes. She stepped to the side. Steve walked into the elevator, took it all the way to the garage, got on his bike, and left. 

***

Bucky stayed in the park for hours. His body burned from those single touches. A hand on his arm. An arm, however briefly, wrapped around him. He wished that he’d recognized the moment when it had happened so he could’ve acted, but maybe it was better that he didn’t. He didn’t know if he’d have been able to let go. 

He wasn’t forgiven. He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t wanted that. A single chance was what he’d wanted. And somehow, (maybe gods did exist somewhere, and maybe they’d been feeling merciful) he’d been granted it. 

At some point during his vigil (was it a vigil? It was the only word that seemed to fit) it rained. It was a brief spatter that seemed only to take place above him. The wind had picked up slightly, and the sky darkened considerably. Bucky had been too busy replaying their entire conversation and wondering if he should’ve appeared even more remorseful to notice. Really, the only reason he knew it rained was because he was wet. And he was cold. 

Him and cold was a bad combination. It was easier to remember things he didn’t want to remember when he was cold. It was easier for the Solider to manifest when he was cold. 

Bucky unwrapped himself and stood. He was amazed, honestly, that he still could. He walked home. It was funny—this was what he’d wanted: a conversation, a chance. He’d filled his days with plans on how and when it would happen. He’d wanted it to be purposeful on his part which, now that he thought about it, was maybe the least fair to the both of him. It gave him time to prepare and suffer, and it gave Steve nothing. 

The way they met today, both on their territory, living their respective lives, felt right. It felt like the universe had nudged them, rather than Bucky attempting to nudge the universe. For all of Bucky’s preparedness, he’d had nothing. 

It wasn’t cold out, not really, but when Bucky finally returned to his apartment, he was frozen to the bone. He couldn’t really remember the time directly out of cryofreeze, but that’s what he felt like. It was the feeling of thinking you have a fever when you don’t. He was achingly cold and stupidly hot. Famished and disgustingly full. So exhausted he was nauseous. 

His shower warmed him, but he was still cold. He draped a blanket around his shoulders and put on a kettle to boil. Normally, just being in his apartment made him feel at ease. The bright, open windows; the bright yellow throw pillows he’d added to his couch; the abstract painting of the New York skyline. It was comfortable. It was something that felt like him. But now, standing in it listlessly, sweatpants curling under his feet, sweatshirt both tight and loose around his left shoulder, he was forced with the fact that he’d curated this space with the idea that someone would share it with him. It was curated with a specific goal in mind: to convince someone else that he was okay. Now, Bucky was forced with the question of how he ever thought he had been. 

The kettle screamed. Bucky flinched. 

He grabbed his mug, dropped a tea bag in, and poured the water. 

Bucky had invited Steve over. That was the part of the conversation that played over his head over and over again. He hadn’t expected to say it. It had just happened. The way Steve had said no—so quickly, so factual—was the gut punch he’d needed to remember everything. Because he’d seen him and for a moment everything had been okay. Everything had been more than okay. 

For a moment, for one glorious, shining moment, he’d pictured Steve walking into his apartment. He’d imagined Steve looking around and being impressed. He’d imagined Steve turning to him and saying ‘ _ you’re really back, aren’t you _ ’. He’d imagined nodding and saying ‘ _ yes _ ’. 

He turned his back on his living room, cupped his tea between his palms, and went to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He sat on his bed, his back against the wall, his knees against his chest. The window beside him was cracked, spilling in the chilly, bright air the evening had decided to bring. 

_ “Coffee sounds good _ . _ ”  _

He’d felt like an idiot when he’d suggested it. It was the thing characters did in books. They picked a place where they could act like civilized members of society. They had a civilized conversation. Things worked out. Why would anything work out for him? 

But Steve had agreed; Bucky needed to remember that. Steve was the one who’d said he’d be willing to try. Steve was giving him a chance. Bucky just needed to not fuck it up. Again. 

He hit his head against the wall. He should feel ecstatic. He should be out of his mind with joy. He shouldn’t be- this. Whatever this was. He hit his head against the wall again and groaned in frustration. 

“You home?” 

It was the first time he wasn’t happy to hear Grant’s voice. He considered not answering. 

“Yeah.” 

“You have as shitty a day as me?” He sounded tired.

“I’m still trying to decide if it was shitty or not. My brain’s having a hard time deciding whether it should take this as slow punishment or not.” Bucky took a sip of tea, trying to decide how far he wanted to go. “I saw my friend again today. We talked, actually, and we’re getting coffee next Thursday.” 

“I saw my guy again today as well. If that was the only thing my day had brought, it would’ve been good.” There was a pause. “Do-do you want to come over?” 

If it were any other day, Bucky would have been ecstatic at the invitation. But it wasn’t any other day. He didn’t want to end this nebulous relationship. The ungrounded nature of it was what made it feel safe. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said, quiet as he dared. “But no. Just-not today.” 

The silence that followed was expansive. Bucky drank his tea, more for the feeling of something tactile than anything else. They both sat. The wall was between them, but they sat back to back, head matching head. 

“I saw him and my heart stopped,” Grant said. “I wanted to be so angry because of everything he’s done to me, but I saw him and I was just so-” 

“Happy,” Bucky finished. “Because there was a piece of you missing until he was there.” 

“Yeah.” 

Bucky heard Grant sigh, or something like it. He took another sip of tea in solidarity. 

“I’m trying to decide: does me understanding the choices he made all those years ago make it better or worse? I know why he was scared, and the only reason I wasn’t was because-” Grant sighed again. “Is it bad that I want him back in my life even though he broke my heart?” 

“It depends,” Bucky replied. “Are you just giving him your heart, or are you going to make him work for it?” 

“I don’t think I ever got it back,” he murmured. “I think we traded hearts when we were kids and first fell in love. I think that’s the only reason we’re both still alive. Like dog tags, but more essential.” 

Bucky didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. Instead, because he was an asshole who had started developing feelings for a man he’d never met, he asked: “How is your girl handling all of this? You ever end up telling her?” 

There was another sigh. A big one. He imagined Grant scrubbing at his face because it was what he would do. Another sigh, a smaller one, occurred before the words. 

“She knows. Apparently she knew before—not all the details, but she knew enough. She knew how much I needed to talk to him again. She knew he was back the whole time.” His voice started to raise. “My best friend, too. She knew the whole goddamn time and lied to me.” There was the sound of something being swept off its surface. The sketchbooks on his desk perhaps. 

Springs groaned. Grant had sat back on his bed. There was another sigh that sounded close to a sob. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said softly. “I don’t know if this’ll mean anything to you, but  _ I _ didn’t know he was back.” 

“Thank you,” Grant said. “It does. It means a lot.” 

Springs squeaked again. Bucky considered rescinding his refusal and then remembered his day had occurred as well, and he was exhausted. Placed next to Grant’s, it had been incredible (and who was he kidding? It had been. Steve had been there, and he wanted to try again), but he was exhausted. 

“Is it weird that I trust you more than I trust some of the people I’ve known for years?” Grant asked. “I don’t know you, but it feels like I do.” 

“It’s not weird,” Bucky replied. “I mean, maybe it is, but I feel the same.” He stared down into his mug. Only the tea bag was left. “After everything that happened to me in the war, I don’t—I feel safe when I talk to you.” 

If Grant replied to that, Bucky didn’t hear him. But he did hear him ask this: “Do you ever think what would’ve happened if the war hadn’t happened? How much easier everything would’ve been?” 

Bucky continued staring at the ring of liquid at the bottom of his mug. Outside, the wind blew, scattering the leaves that had already fallen along the pavement. He nodded to himself. Nothing would’ve been easier, but at least he wouldn’t have left. The war made him a coward. 

“I think about it all the time.” 

“But then I think, if the war hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have this apartment. I wouldn’t be sitting here. I wouldn’t have met you.” Grant snorted, breathing laughter through his nose. “All that pain and heartbreak for one person I don’t even know. What does that make me?” 

And to that, Bucky had no reply. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything looks so much brighter when you're out of the war. Your author is good. Still no promises on regular chapters, but your author is good. Also, HAPPY FALL BITCHES
> 
> Chapter album: Unplugged, by Cloud Cult 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr @padfoot-and-the-marauders


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been settling scores/ I've been fighting so long/ But I've lost your war/ And our kingdom is gone/ How shall I win back/ Your heart which was mine/ I have broken bones and tattered clothes/ I've run out of time/ I'll run, I'll run/ I'll run run to you
> 
> (Chapter song: Run to you, Pentatonix)

Steve didn’t know how he would describe those next two weeks if anyone asked. Of course, no one would ask because he didn’t let himself see anyone who would ask. He didn’t know if he was happy. He didn’t know if he was sad. He didn’t know if he was disappointed, or excited or anything. He just was. 

He ignored phone calls from Natasha and texts from Addison. He ignored the buzz of his intercom. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to them, it was that— No. It was precisely that. He couldn’t stomach the idea of seeing them, or hearing their excuses, or their condescending lecture. 

He loved Natasha, she was his best friend and he loved her and he knew she was just trying to protect him because she got possessive of the family she found, but even Steve could admit that she could be a bitch on occasion. Eventually, he’d go and they’d have a conversation. 

With Addison, he just couldn’t. Steve understood why Natasha kept this from him. He’d never have imagined Addison doing it. She knew just how much it meant to him. She’d held him through weeks of nightmares in which the only thing he’d spoken was “Bucky”. 

Steve knew Natasha loved him enough to keep it from him. He’d thought Addison had loved him enough to tell him. 

Apparently, he was wrong.

He stayed in his apartment. He walked the streets of Brooklyn and allowed himself to get lost in memories of his childhood. Fights in back alleys, selling papers on the corner there or roasted nuts on the corner over there, meeting Bucky at the docks after a long shift and walking back to his ma’s where a small dinner was waiting. It had never been easy, but it was times like this that he missed it. It was easy to glorify memories when the present was something to be escaped. 

He’d been so alive before the serum. Sure, he’d nearly died a handful of times, but that had been the exciting part. It had been what made life worth living. He hadn’t known how many days he had to live, so he hadn’t let anything hold him back. He’d lived loudly. He’d faced the consequences that came from that, but he hadn’t let himself be held back. It was the reason he’d been able to confess his feelings to Bucky. Steve missed being that person. 

“So what’s holding you back?” James asked one night. “Sure, reverting into someone you used to be isn’t usually what you see, or if you do it’s something to be concerned about, but if you don’t like the person you are today, why stay that person? Why not change?” 

“Because so many people look up to who I am now,” Steve replied. “I have kids who tell me they want to be exactly like me when they grow up, and it feels like I’d be letting them down if I change.” 

“But if you’re not happy, what’s the point? Like you’ve said, we only have one life to live, so if we’re not enjoying a majority of it, something needs to change. If you know what needs to change in order for you to enjoy life...” Steve imagined him spreading his hands. “That’s all I’m going to say.” 

Steve stared at the ceiling in his room. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but that kid had a whole lot of issues.” 

He heard James snort. “Buddy, you got a whole lot coming to you if you think those issues aren’t still a part of you.”

“Yeah, I know.” He sighed. “You still going out to meet your friend tomorrow?” 

“I am!” 

Steve smiled at James’ enthusiasm. 

“What about you? You still meeting your friend?”

Steve’s smile faded some. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.” 

“You don’t sound thrilled about that.” 

Steve sat up and rested his head against the wall. “I don’t know. It changes by the day; by the hour even. Because I do miss him, and I know he went through absolute shit, some of it because of me, so I want to see him okay. I just-I don’t know. I know I said I was willing to try again and I want to, but I-” he shook his head. “I don’t know.” 

“He hurt you,” James said. 

Steve nodded to himself. “He hurt me and I’m scared because I want to let him back in. I’m scared because there’s a part of me that still loves him.” 

“Just because you said you were willing to try again doesn’t mean you have to ever be what you used to. You are allowed to have acquaintances. He can still be in your life, but you don’t have to give your life back to him.” 

Steve stared unseeingly ahead of him. “I don’t know if I can do that with him.” 

James was quiet for a moment. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m sure your guy is just as nervous.” 

“Why’d you say that?” 

“Because if it was me waiting for you and I knew how much I screwed up and how much you loved me, I would be terrified.”

It was said quietly, like it was a confession. It did something to Steve’s heart.

***

Bucky wouldn’t say he was scared, sitting inside the cafe, but he  _ was _ nervous. If he’d known for certain Steve was going to arrive, he would’ve been terrified. For some reason, the uncertainty was what soothed him. 

He arrived two hours early. At first, he’d sat by the large window that looked out onto the sidewalk, but that quickly grated his nerves, so he picked himself up and found a small booth in the back. He sat with his back to the door, liking the idea of being surprised. With a small cup of coffee, he grew slowly more frustrated with the NYT crossword. It was silly, but he dreamed of the day he could complete one again. 

The door jingled everytime it opened. Every time it jingled, Bucky tensed and then relaxed after minutes of nothing happening. What would happen would happen. Steve had every right to not show up. Bucky wouldn’t blame him. If it were the other way around and Steve had been the one to hurt him, if Steve was the one waiting, Bucky knew he’d be hesitant to show up, too. He knew it was a lie as soon as he thought it. He’d still be waiting. 

Bucky buried himself back in the crossword, cursing his brain which now lost more information than it retained. 

“Aria. That’s the word you’re looking for for 36 down.” 

Bucky swallowed and scratched in the word. “Thanks.” His voice caught in his throat. 

“Can I sit?” 

Bucky finally looked up. Steve cautiously stood beside the seat across from him, holding a sweatshirt in his arms. Bucky nodded, not trusting his voice. Steve slid into the booth. Neither of them said anything. Both of them stared at the table. They occasionally looked up and caught the other’s eye. 

“You look better,” Bucky finally said. “No sling or black eyes.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Steve said, frowning slightly and touching his face. “No missions or fights.” 

“Weird to hear you say that.” It wasn’t meant to be a joke, but the corners of Steve’s lips flickered slightly. 

“It’s been nice, honestly. It’s been a while since I’ve had a stretch at home. Couches are comfortable. Showers are wonderful. Pillows? A big fan.” 

“You’re getting rid of them, right?” The desperation must have shown on his face because Steve gave that soft, sad smile he’d give when trying to reassure frightened kids. 

“We’re trying. One day they’ll be gone.” 

Bucky nodded, his head going to his hands. He imagined waking up in a world where Hydra no longer existed. Where he could be completely free from them. 

There was a hand on his arm. “Hey,” Steve said. Soft. “My team is good at punching Nazis. It’s one of our favorite past times.” 

Bucky looked up. Steve removed his hand from his arm. “With you at the helm, I’d expect nothing less.” 

And with that, Steve snorted, an actual smile lifting his lips. “Yeah. After knocking out Hitler over 200 times, I guess it’s something that sticks. Can’t say I’m mad about it.” 

“I wish I could’ve seen those shows,” Bucky said, smiling now too. “Can you imagine if things had been different? I would’ve teased you senseless.” 

“Honestly, the tights were comfortable. I think you’d be surprised.” 

“You’re saying you would’ve forced me into them?” Bucky asked, full on grinning now. Even a chuckle managed to escape 

Steve shrugged. “Maybe.” 

“You know, I probably would’ve let you.” 

Steve looked down, and Bucky watched him. He looked the same and he looked different. Young and infinitely old. Hair slightly spiked, shoulders softened by the light grey of his worn t-shirt, eyes tired. He looked like a person. The media often forgot that he was. That wasn’t quite it. 

He looked like the man he’d been before the serum. 

Bucky loved him. 

His hand was still on the table, fingers gripped around his pencil. He didn’t know why he didn’t move it. Maybe he was hoping Steve would take it. Maybe he thought that if he moved this tenuous moment would crack. 

Steve looked up, wearing a version of the expression Bucky had come to associate with him doing something disastrous. Stubborn, courageous, a little bit of fear. A lot of uncertainty. His hand left his lap. The tips of his fingers brushed against Bucky’s. Bucky’s breath caught. 

“What is this?” Steve asked. “What are we?” 

There was a lot Bucky could say. They were stupid. They were cowardly. They were too little too late and held back confessions and dreams you wished were real. They were both men out of time trying desperately to cling to anything they could. They were everything. They were nothing. They were... they were. 

“What do you want us to be?” 

Steve looked at the table, at their fingers that now overlapped. Bucky was still afraid to move. Or maybe he was selfish. Was there a difference? 

“I think I might be falling in love with someone else.” 

Steve looked as surprised by his saying of the words as Bucky felt punched by them. Bucky looked down at their hands. He still didn’t move. Neither did Steve. 

“Oh,” he said when he finally found his voice. “I’m happy for you.” Was he? He was sure he was supposed to be, which was why he said it. 

Steve frowned. “I need to go,” he said. “I’m sorry. This was a mistake. I can’t do this.” 

He stood abruptly, knocking into the table. Bucky closed his hand around Steve’s fingers before he could take his hand away. 

“Wait, Steve.” Bucky didn’t even know what he wanted to say. He just didn’t want this moment to end. “Can I see you again?” 

He could see that Steve was caught. Hiding his emotions was never something was good at. He wanted to say yes. His tongue wet his lips. His eyes met Bucky’s. 

“I...I don’t know.” 

“I’ll be here every other Thursday,” Bucky told him. “You don’t have to show up, but in case you want to try again.” He didn’t know how he had the capability to be so civil when he was tearing at the seams. 

Steve just nodded. Bucky somehow managed to let go of his hand. Steve looked at him for a moment longer and then walked away. 

The bell jingled on the way out, too. 

***

Steve didn’t know why he thought he’d be able to do that. Addison had been right. One look from those eyes he’d memorized a thousand times over and he’d thrown himself right back into the fire. He didn’t even know where he was walking. Cars honked at him. He finished crossing the street and entered a park. 

Nothing had mattered anymore once they’d started talking. It was like nothing had happened. Bucky grinned and laughed and Steve was sixteen and realizing he was in love with his best friend. They bantered. They joked. And for a minute, Steve thought maybe. Maybe he could let everything go. He’d thought maybe he could try to be acquaintances like James had suggested, but it was impossible. Bucky was either in his life or he wasn’t. And if he was in his life, he  _ was _ his life. 

He knew Bucky loved him. He knew if he still wanted a relationship, they could. He knew he could go back into the cafe and find Bucky still sitting there and they could figure out their life. 

_ I think I might be falling in love with someone else _ . 

As much as the words had surprised him, there was a truth to them. He wasn’t even going to begin to figure it out, but there was a small part of him that fell deeper in love with his neighbor each night they talked. Which, lately, was every night. Sometimes, they went on for hours. 

There was this honesty to James. Steve knew he’d gone through a fair bit, but there was still this lightness to him, like he was trying to make the most of the days he’d been given back. They joked. They sat in silence. They existed together. Each night, Steve thought about inviting him over, but he never did. He loved existing as Grant, because he could figure out who he was. He didn’t have to be Captain America. 

And Steve laughed with him. Honest to God laughed. One from the belly, that used his entire body. One that couldn’t be faked. Steve didn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like that. Certainly not with Addison (though they both tried). Not with Natasha or the rest of the team. But he did with James. 

There were no expectations when it came to James. Neither of them had to be anything or anyone. And for Steve, who’d needed to be someone for so long, who’d been told who he’d needed to be, the freedom was everything. And while James hadn’t said anything about his past in the army, Steve was sure it was everything for him as well. 

And there was no doubt about it anymore. He was in love with someone he’d never met. Maybe he’d be brave enough to admit to it one day. Maybe sooner than later, as he wasn’t planning on returning to the Tower any time soon. Steve knew he would always love Bucky. Maybe he would always be a little in love with him. But maybe he owed it to himself—to the both of them—to let him go. Maybe Addison had been right all along. Maybe he just had to realize he wanted something different in order for it to actually mean something. 

He’d never asked Addison if she originally liked him for him, or because he was Captain America. At first, it hadn’t really mattered. He’d been lonely and the team had been worried about him. And then he’d been in love with her, so he hadn’t wanted to ask and it didn’t matter because they’d been together for so long. With James, there was no question. He liked Steve—well, Grant—for who he was. A real person. A flawed individual. Not a symbol to America who’d become a legend. Not someone who little kids looked up to. Just him. 

Steve sat on a bench and ran his hands over his face, trying to control his breathing and his spiraling mind. His life was a mess. Everyone would say this was good because it meant he actually had a life outside of being Captain America, but if this was what having a life was, he didn’t want it. He didn’t want to be genuinely in love with three people. He didn’t want to be able to picture a future where he was happy with all of them. He didn’t want to hurt any of them when he inevitably had to choose. He tried to ignore the fact that he already had. 

Steve had told himself he wasn’t going to return to the Tower, but when he found himself standing outside it and staring up like a tourist, he let himself in. In the few weeks he’d been gone, he’d forgotten just how gaudy everything was. He quickly crossed through the lobby and into the elevators, punching in his code and holding for a retinal scan, all the while telling himself he was just here to grab more supplies. 

When the doors opened and he found himself face to face with Addison, he knew that plan was gone. Despite the way he’d left, he had missed her, and he realized that now. Her expression rose and fell when she saw him, and when it became uncertainty, it was like a spike was driven through him. He was still in the elevator. It would be easy to push another button and just leave, but he couldn’t move. 

“Hey,” he said quietly. 

“Hi,” she said back, just as quiet. 

“Do you—I’m ready to talk, if you—are you doing anything right now?” 

Addison shook her head. “I was just going to hang out with Wanda, but I can let her know something came up.” 

Steve nodded. “I’ll, uh, I’ll be in my room when you’re ready.” 

Addison nodded and Steve finally stepped out of the elevator. Without saying anything more, he walked to his room. He couldn’t say what had compelled him to tell her that he was ready to talk. He didn’t know if he was. He didn’t know what he would say when she was next to him. 

Steve didn’t look up at the knock on his door. He heard a quiet intake of breath and a slow exhale, and then the sound of feet on carpet. He didn’t look up when the bed shifted slightly as Addison sat down. He didn’t look up when her hand touched his arm. In fact, he closed his eyes at the touch. 

“I’m sorry,” she told him. “I know I should’ve told you.” 

“You were right in that there was never a good time,” Steve said, surprising himself. He still hadn’t looked up. 

“I still should’ve found a time. I didn’t know for sure it was him, but I had my suspicions and I should’ve told you.” 

Now he looked up. “How many times did you see him at the booth?” He didn’t want to know, but he couldn’t stop the question from coming out. 

“A couple. They were when you were on mission. We talked. He asked me if you were around because he had some questions he wanted to ask the artist about his inspiration. I didn’t want to believe it was him because he was so nice and I didn’t want to hate him.” 

Steve nodded. Addison’s hand moved to his and on instinct, Steve threaded their fingers. He’d forgotten just how much he’d missed this simple contact until he had it again. For a while, they sat in silence, neither one of them knowing what to say. 

“Steve, are we okay?” Addison asked hesitantly. “I know I messed up, and I understand you needing time, but are we okay? Are you okay?” 

“I don’t know,” he said. 

“Are you at least staying here?” 

“I don’t know. I didn’t expect to come today.”

“Do you regret it?” To her credit, she did meet Steve’s gaze. He tried to give her the same courtesy. 

“I don’t know.” 

Addison nodded, swallowing hard. She twirled a piece of hair around her finger. It looked like she was trying not to cry. “Is that all you can say?” she asked. “Two weeks of no contact, and all you can say to me is ‘I don’t know’?” 

“Would you rather me lie to you? Do you want me to tell you that everything is fine, that I can just put the fact that you kept this thing you knew was important to me behind me?” 

“You put everything he did to you behind you real quick,” she shot back. 

“You don’t get to go there,” he growled. 

It surprised him when she deflated. Her fire and spit was one of the reasons he’d fallen for her in the first place. She was like Natasha in the way that she was fiercely protective and rarely backed down. 

“I don’t know why I ever thought I stood a chance,” she said. “I think that was one of the reasons I was terrified of telling you. I knew you’d run straight back to him if you knew he was back, and I was right. I didn’t want to lose you, but I guess I never really had you, did I?” 

She took her hand back. “I’ll make this easy on you, Steve. I love you and if you decide I’m ultimately what you want, great. We’ll figure this out, somehow. But I think we both know that’s not going to happen. So I’m going to pack my things and move in with my sister. Live with the idea of us not being together for a while and then let me know what you decide because I can’t live with this in between anymore.” 

Steve expected to feel something from her words, a rush of excitement or panic or dread. Something that allowed him to make his decision right then and be done with it, but he was too muddled in the fact that he loved three people to feel anything. 

She stood and walked towards the door. Steve found he had something to say. 

“Addison,” he called. “Whatever I decide, I want you to know that it has nothing to do with you.” 

“Yeah, it does,” she said. “It has everything to do with the fact that I’m not someone else.” 

And Steve had nothing else to say. 

***

Like he had after meeting Steve at the park, Bucky remained sitting in the cafe for another hour. A part of him hoped Steve would come back. The other part of him was too wounded to move. He didn’t know why he’d expected everything to go smoothly. Just because he was excited didn’t mean Steve was. Just because Steve had said he was willing to move on didn’t mean he was able to. He just hadn’t expected Steve to say he was in love with someone else. He had no right to be upset by that, but it hurt. 

It hurt a lot. 

When he’d forced himself to get up and go home, he was surprised he could still move. The walk did him good until he was back in his apartment. The place he’d unconsciously created to give the impression that he was okay. The place he’d created to give  _ Steve  _ the impression that he was okay. He didn’t know who he was trying to kid. Certainly not Steve. Certainly not himself. 

Bucky wanted to be mad at Steve. He wanted to be furious. He knew what Bucky had gone through. Blown from a train. Lost his arm in a series of painful experiments thinly veiled as surgeries. Forced to lose his mind, quite literally, by a machine that made it feel like his entire body was on fire. Forced to kill hundreds of people. He deserved more of a chance than what Steve had given him. 

But then again, Steve had deserved more than Bucky had given him. 

Bucky stopped his fist an inch before it hit the wall. He forced himself to take a deep breath, and then another one, and then another, until he could do it without struggle. 

Steve had made his choice, the way Bucky had made his all those years ago. Bucky had to respect that. It was the only thing he could give to him. Steve had made his choice and now they could both move on with their lives. There was no more waiting. Of course, Bucky would wait. He would always wait. And maybe one day he’d stop, but Steve would always know the door was open, and that would be enough. 

Still buzzing with anxious energy, he went into the kitchen and took it out on undeserving vegetables to fry up for his dinner. When that was done, he cleaned the kitchen and showered. A normal night for a day that was anything but. 

When he sat down to journal for the night, he filled five pages. Most of it was berating himself for letting himself fall so hard. The rest was trying to convince himself it wasn’t his fault. After all, it was Steve; how could he have done anything different. 

Bucky was preparing for another night of nightmares when he heard the springs of Grant’s bed groan. And then he heard what he thought was a muffled sob. 

“I suppose I don’t need to ask how your day was, do I?” Bucky asked. 

The silence was so long he thought Grant was purposefully ignoring him. 

“I think my girl and I broke up,” he finally answered.

“Oh.” Bucky frowned. That was the last thing he’d expected. “Was it because of your friend?” 

“Yes. No. I don’t know. It’s all so complicated.” 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said softly. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Not really.” There was a pause. “Actually, yeah, if you don’t mind. I don’t have anyone else.” Grant’s voice caught in the middle of the sentence and Bucky’s heart hurt. 

“I was the one who asked.”

“I know.” There was another pause. “I just-I don’t know. We were good just a few months ago, and then I left for a month and I’d nearly died and I made the promise that I’d talk to her whenever I was getting bad, and then I found out that she’d been keeping something from me for months. She learned that he was back in August, and it took until I saw him again for her to say anything. And sure, she apologized when I spoke to her again, but how am I supposed to trust her after this?” 

Bucky waited a moment to make sure he was done before speaking. “I think the real question you need to ask is do you want to.” 

“I don’t know. She’s giving me the choice on whether or not we stay together, and I love her, but if I can’t trust her to tell me things like this because she’s afraid of losing me, then she already has. It’s just all so messed up. I can’t trust her and I’ve loved her for two years, and I’m spilling out everything to a guy I only know through nighttime conversation.” 

“But that’s part of the allure, isn’t it? Sure, you know who I am, but you wouldn’t be able to pick me out of the street, so what you say has no consequences. You get all the benefits of saying it to a person who cares, but you don’t have to face the consequences of telling it to someone that will be able to tell you you’re a shitty person and have it mean something to you.”

“You think I’m a shitty person?” Grant sounded wounded. Like it did matter to him what Bucky thought of him. 

“We’re all shitty people at one point or another,” Bucky said. “It’s just a side effect of being human.” 

It was something Bucky had needed to come to terms with early on in his recovery. He’d been a machine for so long that being something, even if it was terrible, was better than nothing. Being something meant he was human, and that meant everything. 

“You still alive in there?” Bucky asked after a long silence. 

It went on a little longer. “Yeah. Just-I don’t know. My mind is going off.” 

“So talk about something else.”

“Like what?” 

“I don’t know. Tell me a story or something. A fairy tale.” 

So haltingly at first and then with more confidence as the night wore on, Grant wove a tale that Bucky remembered from his childhood. It was an Irish legend that Sarah told when Steve had been sick and then one that Steve would tell on the anniversary of her passing. The Tuatha de Danann. 

As Grant continued to explain the old gods of Ireland, Bucky found himself enthralled with the rise and fall of his voice. How he crafted his sentences as carefully as if he were blowing glass. He imagined him sitting in his dark room, his face slightly scrunched in concentration but his eyes gleaming. Bucky wished he could see him. He wished he could be sitting on his bed with him. He didn’t forget about his day with Steve, but it didn’t seem to matter anymore. 

It took a while for Bucky to realize Grant had stopped talking. After a while, he’d stopped listening to the story itself and just listened to the sound of the words. It hadn’t been long before he’d been lulled into a dream-like state. 

“You could’ve been an actor, a voice like yours,” Bucky told him. 

“It’s funny,” Grant said, “before I got this job, I was. I was part of a travelling show. Had a ridiculous costume and everything.” 

“Anything I would know?” He wanted to see it now. He desperately wanted to know what Grant looked like. 

“There’s no way I’d live up to it even if you would know it. You don’t need to see me in that costume.” 

Bucky was glad to hear the smile in the words. 

“Oh come on, now you gotta tell me!” 

“Call me a shitty person all you want, that secret is staying locked up tight.” 

They laughed together and everything was right again. Sure, things might not have gone the way he’d wanted to with Steve, but he still had this. He had this friendship that he’d earned. Bucky was about to ask how he’d gotten so lucky to get Grant as a neighbor when Grant spoke again.

“I think I might be in love with you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still alive! I probably don't need to tell you that life has been crazy. I have a new job that involves staring at two computes for 8 hours a day, so it's been a bit hard to find the energy to write. I may or may not have needed to reread everything I'd written to remember where exactly it was I left off, but here we are. A new chapter.
> 
> As always, comments are always appreciated.
> 
> Happy holidays! Please stay safe. Lots of love to all of you <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything in life is like a dance with strangers/ Right from the start, your heart is waitin'/ You'll never find love without a little danger/ We stumble around to the music playin'/ How do you know it's true?/ Calling the shots/ Trading the view/ Once you've been caught/ You're caught through and through/ The harder we fall, harder we bruise/ I've never belonged to one like you
> 
> Out of the Blue, Fluerie

The minutes passed. His neighbor stayed silent. Steve buried his face into his hands. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have. It’s been a long, emotional day and- I’m sorry,” he mumbled. 

“No, it’s okay,” James finally said, words slow. “Is it-is it crazy to say that I think I might be in love with you too?”

Steve almost laughed with the relief he felt. Giddiness coursed through him. “Do you think I could meet you someday?” 

“I think we could make that happen,” James said with a quiet laugh. “Although, I do rather like our relationship right now. It means you don’t need to see what the war has done to me.” 

“Believe me. Whatever it is, I’ve seen worse,” Steve assured him. “And besides, we’re always harsher on ourselves than others would ever dream of being.”

“Trust me, people don’t make any effort to hide the way they feel about me. I made quite a name for myself when I was still deployed.” James didn’t make any effort to disguise the hurt and loathing in his voice. 

Desperate to make him feel better, Steve spun the words he always tried to tell himself. “I’m sure whatever actions you took were what you believed to be for the good of everyone.” 

“No.” Steve heard him sigh. “I might as well tell you. I mean, as soon as we meet, I guarantee you’ll know, and I guess I want you to have the option of getting out before this becomes more. Grant, I’m-” 

“No,” Steve said. “Your past is your own. I don’t care. Being in our line of work, we all make unpopular decisions. I know I have, and I not only brought myself down, but my entire team. So, whatever it is you’ve done, I don’t care. That’s not the person I’ve come to love.” 

“Once you realize who I am, You’ll care, Grant,” James said in return. “I guarantee you’ll care.” 

“Then that’s on me, and not you.” Besides, who was he to judge people for their pasts? Look at his. He wasn’t free from shitty decisions. His team wasn’t free from shitty decisions. “I haven’t been completely honest with my work either. Well, that’s misleading. Everything I’ve told you is true-” 

“I don’t care,” James told him. 

“You will, once you meet me.” 

“Then that’s on me.” 

Steve laughed softly and he heard James do the same. They didn’t talk much more that evening as it was already late, but that didn’t matter. He was happy. 

Emboldened by the recent developments, Steve returned to the Tower the next day and found Natasha in her room, arguing with Clint about something petty. She stopped talking the moment she spotted him. 

“Can we talk?” he asked. 

“Out, birdbrain.” She pushed Clint off the bed and followed him to the door, which she shut behind him. “I’m not apologizing for what I did. If that’s what you want, you’re going to be sorely mistaken.” 

Steve sighed. He had hoped to get an apology, but that wasn’t his main goal. “It’s in the past. It wasn’t the right decision, but it happened and it’s behind us.” 

Natasha nodded brusquely and sat on the edge of her bed. “So what do you want?” 

“Can’t I just want to talk to my best friend?”

“Is that still what we are after what happened?” 

That hurt him. “I’d like to be. We both acted in regrettable ways, but I don’t want that to change things between us. You were there for me when I desperately needed someone, and I don’t want to lose that.” 

She moved over and patted her bed. Steve sat. 

“So you and Addison?” 

“Yeah,” he sighed again, resting his head in his hands. His elbows rested on his knees. “I want to need to think about it, but my gut knows we’re done. I need to call her.” He wasn’t looking forward to that conversation, because there was a part of him that did still love her. 

“I have to ask. Is this because of Barnes?” 

“Yes and no. It has to do with the fact that she lied to me, and I-”

“You met someone else, didn’t you?” Her face split into an amazed smile. “I never would’ve pegged you the type of person to go after three people at once.” 

“Well, we haven’t actually met. Actually, I guess we have? I don’t know, it’s complicated. He’s my neighbor at my other place. All we’ve done is talk through the walls; we’ve helped each other with nightmares and we’re going through similar situations at the moment, and I don’t know. I’m just happy when I talk with him.” 

“Steve, there’s something you need to know about your neighbor-”

“No. Don’t tell me. James already said he had a past, but I don’t care.” 

She gave him a long, calculated look. “Okay. You remember you said that. Does he know who you are?” 

Steve shook his head. “No. I kind of panicked when he asked and I told him my name was Grant.” 

“Alright. Well. I wish I could say I was happy for you, but I can’t.”

“How could you possibly have something against James? He’s so sweet and considerate.” Steve knew he was smiling, and he knew it was soft and happy. 

Her voice was cold. “Let’s just say we have a history. I knew him before I knew you.” 

“Is he an ex of yours?” 

“Of sorts.”

The smile fell from Steve’s face. His brows furrowed. “Oh.” He hadn’t actually expected that, and he didn’t know how to feel. “Nat, I know you want to protect me, but please don’t do anything. I don’t know what happened between you two, but what we have going is good.”

Natasha looked like she was going to argue and then nodded. “Okay. You just remember what I said.” 

Steve tapped his forehead. “Eidetic memory. Even if I wanted to forget, I can’t.” 

“Just be careful, Steve. You don’t know who you’re giving your heart to.” 

Steve half-smiled. “You know me, I’m always careful.” The joke didn’t land. He hadn’t expected it to. 

“Have you talked to Barnes since you first saw him?” Natasha asked after an uncomfortable silence. 

The silence continued while he decided if he wanted to answer. “I have.”

“How has it gone?” It sounded like she genuinely did care. 

“The moment we start talking, it’s like nothing has changed. But then something happens. Either I do something stupid, or he does, and then we remember, and things get hard. It’s just not the same.” 

“I am sorry,” Natasha told him. “I know how much he meant to you.” 

“Yeah, well, not everything works out the way you want it to. If it did, Clint wouldn’t be allowed foot in the kitchen.” 

At that Natasha laughed, and the difference was astonishing. It was always a startling moment when he remembered that she was only thirty-two. She’d experienced too much for that. They all had. 

“Yeah... it’s the simple things that keep him happy though. I don’t know how many times Tony has replaced that coffee pot because Clint keeps losing them. What a dumbass.”

“The team wouldn’t be the same without him though.” 

“You want to know my theory?” Natasha had placed one of her legs on the bed and turned to face Steve. She seemed so much younger now than when the conversation had first begun. 

“Hmm.” 

“He’s found every single pot. He’s just too embarrassed to bring them back, so somewhere in the Tower, there’s just a closet full of used coffee pots.” 

“No,” Steve said, shaking his head. He was smiling again. “He’d need to actually have a sense of dignity and self-respect to feel embarrassed.”

“Touché. Actually, no. They’re not in a closet. They’re in the ceiling.”

“Is that where he hides?” 

“He says Tony scares him.” 

Steve laughed. 

-

Steve waited in the park, wringing his hands. It was a few days after he’d told James he loved him, and Steve had made his choice. He was fully ending things with Addison. He had to, and the longer he tried to pretend he didn’t have to, the harder it would be for the both of them. So he’d called her and asked her to meet in Central Park at the bench where they’d first run into each other. 

It was ten minutes past the time they’d scheduled to meet. He forced himself to stay sitting. He forced himself to breathe in the crisp September air. He forced his hands to remain flat on his thighs and not pick at his thumbs as has been his nervous habit since childhood. 

“Hey.” Addison’s voice came from behind him. She sat, keeping distance between them. 

“Hey. Um, thanks for coming.” 

Addison nodded. She looked tired and as stressed as him, which was saying something. “I’m assuming you’ve made your decision?” 

Steve sighed and swallowed. “Yeah. I’m sorry, Addison. I can’t stay. It’s not just this thing with Bucky. There’s just a lot going on in my brain right now, and Tony is pretty sure he’s seeing more movement with Hydra so I don’t know how long those missions will be, and it’s just not fair to either of us.” 

“Yeah.” She nodded, her nose scrunching in the way it did when she was trying not to cry. Steve wanted to reach out, but kept his hands to himself. “You know, I knew this was coming. The moment I gave you the option of an easy out, I knew you would take it. The funny thing is, that’s not the thing that was worrying me. I’ve spent the past few nights staring at the ceiling picturing all the magazines who will have a field day with this kind of news.” 

Steve already had his phone out and was forming a message to Tony. “I’ll have Tony shut down any article that even thinks about going into production. If he has anything to do with it, you won’t deal with any of it.” 

It looked like the world had been taken off her shoulders. “Thank you, Steve.” 

He wet his lips. “If we do end up going on a mission soon, I can let you know when I get back safely, if you want.”

“I’d like that.”

“Okay. And Addison? Thank you for everything. You helped me in ways I didn’t even know I needed to be helped, and I’ll never forget that.” 

Addison pressed a light kiss to his cheek. “Take care, Steve. I hope you figure everything out, and I wish you well.” 

And she left. 

***

_ My neighbor told me he loved me a few days ago. I surprised myself by telling him I felt the same.  _

_ I don’t know if this means I’m giving up on Steve. I know I told myself that as long as I was able to tell him I was sorry for what I said that day that I would be able to move on and be fine, but that was before I saw him again. That was before I really remembered everything about him. I never forgot, not really, but seeing him looking like he’d just gotten out of a fight... Even if I let him go, I’ll always love him. And I’ll always miss him. He’ll always be an ex-something, and I think that’s what’ll hurt the most. I’ll always see him on the news and wonder what would’ve been if I hadn’t been a coward. I know it’s not fair to anybody involved in this situation, but when have I ever done anything that benefits the entire party? I’ve always been selfish.  _

_ Am I selfish for being glad that Grant stopped me from telling him who I am? Yes, he deserves to know, but if he knows, I’m afraid that’s all he’ll be able to see. I’m afraid that he’ll stop loving me, and if he does that’s all the proof I need that I’ll never be able to move on. Not fully. Not when the Soldier still holds the reins. _

_ I know he said that if he reacted badly that’s on him, but I’m terrified that won’t be enough. I really don’t want to lose this, but I also really want to meet him. I’ve stopped trying to figure out how and why I fell so quickly. I think it’s his voice. There’s just a hint of a Brooklyn accent, and it reminds me of my childhood. We need to meet. We need to do it sooner rather than later, before this gets any more complicated and before it’ll leave an irreparable hole if he leaves.  _

_ I wonder how many times we’ve passed on the streets. I wonder how many times I’ve seen him but haven’t realized because we haven’t spoken face to face.  _

_ Ma, Becca, I wish you were here. I need your advice. You always seemed to know what to do when it came to things like this. Well, maybe not this, but you just always seemed to know what to do regardless of the situation. And I miss you.  _

_ I guess I’ll figure things out myself. Things will happen regardless of whether I want them to. As always, I’ll let you know.  _

_ I love you,  _

_ James  _

Bucky stared at the pages in the journal he’d just filled. He always signed his name as James. Friends called him Bucky. Family called him James. Only Steve had ever called him Buck. 

He really didn’t understand how life had come to be such a mess. Both men were everything he wanted. Steve was Steve. He was the person Bucky had loved since before he’d known what love was. Grant was his ability to start over, assuming he didn’t run off when he learned his true identity. 

Really, there wasn’t a choice. Steve had made the choice for them both. He said no. They’d tried again and it couldn’t happen. Bucky had to respect that. Yes, he’d return to the cafe every other Thursday like he’d said he would, but he wouldn’t leave upset when Steve didn’t show up. That was that. 

A few weeks passed. Grant was in and out of the apartment. The nights they were able to talk were some of the best nights Bucky could remember ever having. Neither of them brought up meeting face to face. Bucky thought both of them were scared. They knew they needed to, but what they’d said about their identities left a question of who they’d let themselves fall for. 

Bucky made a promise to himself that they would meet before the end of the year. 

At the moment, Bucky sat at the coffee shop in the same booth he’d met Steve in. He didn’t expect anything to happen, but he liked the atmosphere. He currently was drinking earl grey and working on the daily crossword. He had no expectation to get anywhere near completion, but the challenge of it satisfied him. It was a way to challenge his mind that didn’t leave him frustrated if he couldn’t figure out the word. His phone was turned off to prevent the option of cheating. 

When someone sat across from him, he kept his head down. 

“I thought I told you to stay away from Steve.” 

Bucky closed his eyes, let out a slow, calming breath. He’d been wondering when she’d come to him. Knowing his teachings, she’d waited just long enough to make him paranoid. He looked up. Natasha sat with her hands folded neatly in front of her, her face and eyes cold. 

“We ran into each other. You’re not going to fault me for walking on the sidewalk now, are you?”

“You did a lot more than walk on the sidewalk.” 

“I gave him the option of talking in a public area. He accepted. I let him come to me, Natalia-”

Her hands became tight fists. “I thought I told you, you don’t have the right to say my name.” She breathed through her teeth and regained her composure. “What did you tell Steve in the two instances you spoke?” 

“Why do you care?” 

The expression on her face became even colder. “Because I protect the people I consider my family, unlike you.” 

The punch hit in multiple places as she intended. Steve, staring horrified and heart-broken in the rain. A young, red-headed girl pleading for help; the Soldier, in a rare moment of lucidity, offering it and then leaving her hung out to dry. Her screams still haunted his nightmares. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I wanted to help, I did. They wiped me.” 

“I know. They did the same to me.” Natasha let the horror of what she’d said sink deep into Bucky’s bones before repeating, “what did you tell Steve?” 

Bucky shook himself. “Again, I don’t know why it’s your business.” 

“Because when I go on a mission with him, I need to know his mind is on the task ahead and not on you.” 

“You don’t need to worry about that. He made it very clear that nothing would happen between us and that we would probably never see each other again.” 

“Then why are you here waiting for him to show up?” 

Bucky closed his eyes, guilt souring his stomach. “Because I told him I’d be here if he ever needed anything.” 

“I’m sure he’s already used to being disappointed by you.” And she left. 

Bucky was lying curled on his side, his conversation with Natasha repeating over and over again in his brain. He felt numb and shitty and guilty and sick all at the same time. He’d known they’d done something terrible to her after they’d found her out of bed after hours, but he hadn’t expected that. He thought the chair had been his own special form of punishment. To an extent, the serum had been able to protect him from permanent damage. She had nothing. He’d set her up for that. 

There was a soft knock on the wall. 

“James, are you there?” 

“Yeah,” he said, his voice cracking. 

“Shit, are you okay?” 

“Not really. I had a conversation with an old acquaintance that didn’t go well. I’ll be fine.” 

Grant sighed. “I came to tell you that I’m leaving on mission, but I have a few minutes before I have to head out. Do you want me to come over?” 

Bucky shook his head. “No. I don’t want you to see me like this. You need to keep your mind on your task.” 

There was a moment of silence. “When I get back, we’re really meeting, okay?” 

“Okay. Be safe, Grant.”

“I will. I-I love you, James.” 

“I love you too, Grant.” 

There was another soft knock on the wall, and then there was silence. Bucky stayed curled in the same miserable position until he fell asleep. 

His nightmares placed Grant in the chair. Natasha smiled as she wiped him. Bucky woke screaming. There was no one to comfort him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love it when life settles down enough for an actual writing routine to happen again! This isn't a promise for regular chapters, but I'm hoping I can give them. 
> 
> As always, comments bring me so much joy. I love knowing what you're thinking while you're reading. Lots of love to you all! <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Break my soul in two looking for you/ But you're right here  
> .  
>  )  
> .

The months Grant was gone were some of the worst Bucky had ever had. No, they weren’t as bad as the constant torture while he’d been in the hands of Hydra’s scientists. They weren’t as bad as the first few hours out of cryo. But for this new life he’d been trying to make for himself, they were the worst. 

September turned into October. 

In an attempt to keep himself from sleeping, he’d found a 24 hour gym and whiled hours of the night away punching a bag and lifting weights. When that didn’t work, he tried running. The distraction worked for a while, but his brain had found a way to get louder. It still prevented him from sleeping though, and the thoughts running in circles in his mind had to be better than the never ending nightmares. If they would repeat, Bucky would be able to handle them. Sure, it wouldn’t make them any less horrifying, but he would know what to expect. But everytime he slept, they were different. Small aspects were changed to make them even worse. 

October turned into November. The weather turned bad. There was a week that rained non-stop, which turned into a blizzard, which had turned into sleet. Bucky hadn’t been able to leave his apartment to run or go to the gym and had been stuck with his loud brain. At that point, he’d tried everything. Yoga, knitting, baking. Nothing helped. 

His managers at the deli had given him a week off after he’d nodded off in the break room and scared away half of the customers. He’d spent most of that week on Dot’s couch. She didn’t ask him to talk about things. She just gave him cookies and tea and crocheted while he looked through old photo albums or read or simply sat. He cooked them dinners, and gently refused when she told him he could stay the night. He wouldn’t subject her to his screaming. That was always how he woke now. Sometimes his fist was already in his mouth. Throat raw, covered in sweat, tears streaming down his face. 

November turned into December.

The only good thing that had come from these months was texting Grant. He’d slipped his number beneath Bucky’s door before he’d left on his mission, with the note  _ in case you miss me. _ Bucky hadn’t wanted to use it. Grant was on a mission. Bucky didn’t want his mind inundated with thoughts of him and then have something happen. He’d never forgive himself if Grant came home injured because of him. 

But there had been one night when his nightmare had been particularly bad. It had been one where he’d woken still trapped in it. His limbs had been frozen and a faceless man had stood over him, scalpel in hand. By the time he’d been able to move, he’d been half convinced that night would be his last. So, with shaking fingers, he’d entered Grant’s number into his phone and sent the first message. 

After that first point of contact, they talked most days. Usually, it was just a small thing. A good morning or good night message, Grant confirming that he was okay. Some days, like today, they would have a longer conversation. 

Bucky, on his third night without sleep and dreading the point his body forced him to, was currently smiling into his phone. 

> GRANT [10:48 pm]: You’re a loony, James
> 
> ME [10:48 pm]: What, for thinking that the prequel trilogy isn’t actually that bad? Okay, sure, there is Jar Jar and he’s a sad excuse for a character. However, if you think about it, the writing isn’t that bad. 
> 
> GRANT [11:00 pm]: Fine 
> 
> ME [11:00 pm]: You spent those twelve minutes trying to find a suitable comeback, didn’t you? 
> 
> GRANT [11:01pm]: I have the excuse of being on mission, but yeah... yeah, I did. 

For some reason, that singular reply made Bucky’s heart grow warm. He quickly typed the question he’d been longing to ask for weeks. He stared at it, deleted it, and then typed it out again. Without giving himself time to hesitate, he sent it. 

> ME [11:04 pm]: When do you think you’ll be home? I miss you 

Bucky watched the three dots appear and disappear. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. He tried not to panic. He forced himself to stay awake. As the minutes stretched on, it became harder and harder. He’d very nearly fallen asleep when his phone buzzed and seared him awake.

> GRANT [12:10 am]: I wish I could say. We could be on our way home tomorrow, or it could be weeks. We’re here for the long haul, trying to bring as many of these assholes as possible. 
> 
> GRANT [12:10 am]: I miss you, too. 
> 
> GRANT [12:10 am]: I wish I were there with you 

Bucky stared at his reply for a long time before pressing send. It wasn’t anything they didn’t already know, but it felt deeply intimate. 

> ME [12:15 am]: I wish you were here, too. It’s too quiet without you
> 
> GRANT [12:20 am]: I’ll be home as soon as I can 
> 
> GRANT [12:20 am]: I gotta go. A team member just got back from recon and she doesn’t look happy 
> 
> ME [12:24 am]: Stay safe
> 
> ME [12:24 am]: Please 

There was nothing to indicate that Grant had seen the message. Bucky clicked his phone off and curled into the tightest ball he could manage. There was the same pit in his stomach as when he’d returned to the apartment he’d shared with Steve to find it empty. That night, he’d curled onto the bed they’d shared and tried not to wallow. He’d tried not to admit that he was lonely. Much like now, it had been a failure. 

Once he’d hit sixteen, he’d been expected by almost everyone to be in a relationship. He’d been young and handsome and the pride of the Barnes’ household. His plan had been laid out by his father; he’d find a good wife, have a respectable job, and raise a family. For the most part, he’d been on route to fulfilling that. He’d gone on dates, tried to find a woman he liked more than a friend, tried to pretend he hadn’t fallen deeper in love with Steve each day. He’d rarely ever been alone. 

Bucky remembered his first years in Hydra’s hands with perfect clarity. Between the experiments on his arm and their attempt to make him comply, he’d been kept in isolation. They’d hope to break his will. It had only been sheer spite that kept them from winning that battle, but ever since then, both Bucky and the Soldier had feared being alone. 

When he’d found his freedom, being alone had been the greatest treasure. It meant he didn't need to answer to anyone. He could do what he wanted when he wanted. He hadn’t ever expected that to change. But then again, he hadn’t expected Grant. 

Outside, it started to snow again. Bucky pulled the blanket tighter around him, and tried to imagine how their meeting would go. When he finally fell asleep, he was back in the cell Hydra had kept him in. Grant sat on the other side of the wall, unaware that Bucky was there. He found himself mute. Grant walked away. 

Bucky woke with his arm stretched out to no one, lonelier than he’d ever been. 

***

Steve stared at his phone for a moment longer, waiting to see if James would respond before Natasha came and berated him for not being on task. When nothing came, he sighed and tucked it back in his duffle. The rest of the team had already gathered, and once he joined the huddle, Natasha started to talk. Important as her information was, Steve found himself unable to focus. He barely realized when the huddle broke up. Had he said anything? He certainly didn’t remember saying anything. 

“You good, Steve?” Natasha asked. 

“I-yeah.” He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “This might be a weird question, but did I say anything during that?” 

“Yeah, you gave an entire speech. Are you sure you’re okay?” 

There wasn’t any way he was going to tell her he’d been imagining his meeting with James. “Can you rehash what I said? I’m exhausted and completely ran on autopilot.” 

He could tell she didn’t believe him, but probably wanting to avoid another argument, she gave him the high points of what he’d told the team. It was the usual pre-mission spiel, updated to include the new information he must’ve taken in when Natasha had given it. 

“Thanks,” he said when she finished. 

“Just make sure you’re with us when we go in, Steve.” 

“I will be.” That was a promise. He wouldn’t let anything compromise his chance to meet James. Barring anything out of the ordinary happening, it would probably be the least reckless he’d ever been. (And maybe that ought to have said something about his relationship with Addison that a man he’d never met had more of a say on his mission habits than someone he’d been in a relationship with for years). 

The raid ended up lasting five days. By the time it was finally over, the last of the Hydra agents they knew of were in cuffs and ready to stand trial, and Steve was ready to sleep for a week. It was only because of the pile of paperwork that as leader he had the privilege of completing that he didn’t immediately drop off as soon as he sat down in the QuinJet. He knew from experience that if he didn’t get it done on the ride home, it would get pushed back until someone cornered him and demanded it. 

So, wishing he were anywhere but where he was, he ignored his aching eyes and settled to writing a detailed summary of everything that had happened, down to the last unimportant detail. He was only about a fifth of the way through when his phone buzzed. Checking to make sure everyone else was occupied (most everyone was taking advantage of the long flight home by catching up on sleep), he took it out and immediately felt himself relax. 

> JAMES [4:45 pm]: If I believed in karma, I would wholeheartedly believe that everything is out to get me at this point. 
> 
> JAMES [4:45 pm]: Here I was, having a perfectly less than adequate day when a pigeon decides to shit on my favorite leather jacket 
> 
> JAMES [4:46 pm]: And then, to make things even worse, my shoe somehow got caught in a drain and I spilled the coffee I’d just got 
> 
> JAMES [4:46 pm]: and THEN, a fucking seagull decided to take advantage of my momentary distraction and steal my bagel right out of my hand 
> 
> JAMES [4:47 pm]: I swear to fucking god, if anything else happens, I’m going to lock myself inside and never leave again 
> 
> JAMES [4:47 pm]: the world is clearly trying to send me a message, so maybe I’d better just listen 

There was then a string of emoji’s with the head blown off, followed by red angry faces, and finally the poop emoji. Steve chuckled to himself before responding. 

> ME [4:48 pm]: I might have something that’ll make your day better 
> 
> JAMES [4:49 pm]: Is it a new everything bagel with cream cheese? 
> 
> ME [4:50 pm]: Unfortunately not, but I’ll make sure to bring you one one day 

Steve could see Bucky typing as he tapped out the message he’d been longing to send for weeks. 

> ME [4:50 pm]: I’m on my way home :) I won’t be able to swing by the apartment right away because this mission was a major win and there’ll be a shit ton to take care of, but I’ll be by as soon as I possibly can 
> 
> JAMES [4:50 pm]: I’ll hold you to that, Grant. An everything bagel with cream cheese, Actually, make it four, or there’ll be consequences 
> 
> JAMES [4:50 pm]: :D :D :D :D 

Steve knew his smile was radiant, but how could it not be with a reply like that? Sure, their relationship was a little unconventional, but it was real nonetheless. 

> ME [4:51 pm]: As much as I wish I could keep talking, I want to get this paperwork done so I can sleep for the rest of eternity when I get back 
> 
> JAMES [4:52 pm]: Oh, yeah. Don’t let me and my significantly less shitty day keep you
> 
> ME [4:53 pm]: Glad I could be of service :) See you soon, I hope 

James sent back a singular heart and Steve stared at it for a long time before finally clicking shut his phone and turning his attention back to the report he was trying to write. He managed to work for another five minutes before his exhaustion won out. He was asleep before his eyes even fully closed. 

The next week was a flurry of bureaucratic processes and meetings that Steve only needed to be at because he was leader of the Avengers. There wasn’t much he could actually offer, but he was expected so he showed up bright and early and left long after sundown. He barely had a chance to talk to James. 

It was during a much needed break that Steve had the idea. He was standing on one of the Tower’s balconies, snow falling around him, his breath making white vapor in the frigid air. Wanda was throwing a small party in the apartment she’d recently moved into. It was part housewarming, part Christmas party, and the entire team had been encouraged to bring a guest. 

There was a part of Steve that loved the idea of finally meeting James at a party. He liked the image of him standing and talking with his friends and seeing him from across the room. There was something romantic about it, he thought. There was a bit of thrill to it. 

Before he could overthink the idea, he was typing out a message. He sent it before he could panic.

> ME [5:45 pm]: What would you say if I invited you over to a party? It’s nothing big, just a small housewarming/Christmas get together. I’m allowed a guest, and there’s no one I’d rather invite than you 

He was called back in before he had a reply. 

***

Bucky made it through that week simply because he knew Grant was back in town. Sure, he wasn’t at the apartment, but it helped knowing that wasn’t by choice. He didn’t feel as alone now. They could pass each other by on the sidewalk and not know it. 

At the moment, he was sitting in the cafe, sipping a hot chocolate and reading. He didn’t expect Steve to show up anymore. Bucky came for himself. It was a time he could devote to doing something for himself. Sure, Steve could show up if he wanted to, but Bucky wasn’t waiting. It had made all the difference. Instead of waiting with a twinge of anxiety for something he knew wouldn’t happen, Bucky could enjoy the atmosphere and the crowd he’d come to be very comfortable with. 

His usual booth had been taken, which had annoyed him at first, but after sitting in a corner by the large front window, he’d come to accept the change. It was currently snowing, and if Bucky was worried about walking home in the thickening storm, he’d have left an hour ago. As it was, he’d walked through worse, and he was happy here, listening to the quiet chatter, the holiday lights reflecting off the glass. 

It was the best day he’d had in a long time. 

Taking another sip of his hot chocolate, he turned his page and was about to continue reading when his phone buzzed. He felt his smile come before he even knew it was Grant. It only grew when he saw the name. 

> GRANT [5:45 pm]: What would you say if I invited you over to a party? It’s nothing big, just a small housewarming/Christmas get together. I’m allowed a guest, and there’s no one I’d rather invite than you 
> 
> ME [5:45 pm]: I’d love to go!

Bucky typed out his response before even thinking. It was only after it was sent that he realized the implications. A crowd of people he didn’t know. Meeting Grant face to face. Him realizing who Bucky was. There was no hiding his past once Grant saw him. 

Granted, that was true with any meeting they had. Bucky had just always imagined it to be more intimate. Less crowded. Less chance for a scene created by other people. But, Bucky had to remind himself, Grant trusted his team. There was a chance that they already knew about him. It would be fine. 

He wasn’t the Soldier anymore. He’d come too far to care what other people had to say. The only thing that was stopping him was his own fear. It was a reasonable fear—he had a lot at stake, and he didn’t want to know what would happen if Grant left after realizing who he was—but it was a fear nonetheless. If he let it rule his life, he would never leave his apartment. 

So he would go. They would meet, and what happened would happen. And he would finally know what Grant looked like. They would finally be able to have a conversation without a wall between them. Bucky would finally be able to give him the hug he’d wanted to since reaching out after that first nightmare. 

Now he was imagining the scene. Bucky would walk into the party and Grant would be standing in a group of friends with a drink in hand. He would be laughing at something someone said and then he would see Bucky across the room. The smile on his face would grow and they’d meet in the center of the room. They’d make proper introductions, Grant would introduce him to his friends, and then they’d go off on their own. In his vision, the apartment had a balcony they went on and talked. Bucky would once again admit that he loved him, and he hoped that Grant would say the same. 

Bucky was so lost in the vision that it took him a moment to realize someone was talking to him. 

“Sir? I’m so sorry to bother you, but we’re closing early because of the storm. I was asked to tell you that you need to leave.” It was the young woman who’d made his hot chocolate. She was wringing her hands together in her apparent anxiety at asking a large man to leave. 

Bucky blinked, fully reorienting himself in the cafe. He was the only one left, apart from the few staff members cleaning up. “Oh, yeah. Of course. I’ll get out of your way.” 

Her relief was palpable. “Thank you. Have a good night.” 

She hovered a bit while he packed his book in his bag and shrugged on his coat. As soon as he stepped away from the booth, she took his empty mug and brought it to the back. Bucky headed out into the storm that had grown progressively worse and made the trek back home. 

By the time he made it back to the apartment, his hair was entirely white and he was almost regretting his decision to stay at the cafe as late as he did. He was cold and wet and exhausted, but he was back in the warmth of his home. The first thing he did was shower and change into warm, comfortable clothes. Over a quick dinner of reheated leftovers, he took out his phone. Grant still hadn’t responded. Trying not to put too much stock into that fact, he put it back in his pocket and finished his meal in silence. 

He still had no response by the time he was in bed. It was only when he was about to turn off the lights and pray for good dreams that his phone buzzed. In his haste to grab it, he almost flung it off his bedside table. 

> GRANT [10:45 pm]: :D 
> 
> GRANT [10:46pm]: I’ll give you the details tomorrow. I’m asleep on my feet 
> 
> ME [10:47 pm]: Go to sleep <3
> 
> GRANT [10:47 pm]: zzzzz <3

Smiling to himself, Bucky clicked his phone off and closed his eyes. It was the first night in a long while he didn’t dream. 

If Bucky watched the news at all that week, he would’ve seen Steve stand in front of a bunch of cameras and state that they had the last known heads of Hydra’s sleeper cells in captivity. He probably also would’ve also begun to have questions about Grant’s identity. As it was, he didn’t. He didn’t watch the news on a good day, but particularly not during that time. He was too busy trying to prepare himself for meeting Grant, and trying to figure out how to explain that even though he’d been the Winter Soldier—obviously not by choice, but he’d partaken in Hydra’s plots—he wasn’t anymore. He was still in the process of trying to figure out who he was in this day and age. 

December 23rd found Bucky standing in front of his closet as he’d done on several occasions. He was at a complete loss for what to wear. Even though he had a large assortment of clothes (he’d allowed himself a large clothing budget in his attempt to figure out who he wanted to be these days), it felt like he had absolutely nothing to wear. 

He wanted to look nice, but not  _ too  _ formal. Grant had said the party was an informal event, but what did that even mean? Jeans and a t-shirt? A t-shirt with a cardigan? A sweater? Nine different outfits were tried on and subsequently thrown onto his bed before he finally settled on one. A pair of dark jeans with a short-sleeved, black button-down adorned with tiny white flowers. He’d throw on his favorite black leather jacket and boots before heading out. Casual, but like he tried. Sure, normally he tried to stay away from the black ensemble, but even he could admit he looked good. Even he could, and would, admit that the jeans made his ass look  _ fantastic _ . 

The party officially started at six. Bucky had spent a good few hours trying to figure out when he wanted to arrive. He didn’t want to arrive right at six in case Grant wasn’t there yet, but he also didn’t want to make him wait for too long. In the end, he settled on 6:45. 

At 6:20, Bucky left his apartment and walked to his bike. At 6:40, he arrived in front of the quaint, prewar apartment building (it had balconies, he noted). He spent the next twelve minutes and 35 seconds staring at the front door, still on his bike. His heart had started hammering. His stomach had twisted itself into knots. 

This was a terrible idea. How could he have thought that putting himself into a crowded room of people he didn’t know would be a good idea? A crowd he didn’t know that also included the one person he cared for more than he would care to admit. A person who would soon realize that his neighbor was the former Winter Soldier. 

No. He couldn’t do it. He’d just have to text Grant and say something had come up. Maybe he’d been hit by a migraine and he was in no fit state to go anywhere. Bucky could invite Grant over tomorrow or something and they could meet in a more controlled environment where he didn’t have to worry about other people’s reactions. 

Yes. That would be for the best. He knew Grant would be disappointed, but it was for the best. For everybody. (It wasn’t just that he was being selfish and was terrified.) 

Bucky was about to start his bike and head back home when he felt his phone buzz. He took it out and stared at the message. 

> GRANT [6:53 pm]: Can’t wait to see you! :D 

And Bucky couldn’t leave. Not when he knew just how excited Grant was. Bucky had been responsible for a lot of things in his day. He couldn’t be responsible for disappointing him. 

So, scared as he was, Bucky forced himself off his bike. He forced himself up the steps. He forced himself to press the buzzer for Apt 305. He forced himself to wait for the response. 

“Hello?” It was the voice of a young woman. 

“Hi, yes. I’m here for the party? I was invited by one of your friends.” 

“Come on up! The door’s open. Feel free to just walk in.” 

There was a buzz and the front door unlocked itself. Bucky forced himself through it and up the stairs. He forced himself through the hallway. When he reached the door to Apt 305, he allowed himself a moment. He could hear murmurs of conversation and laughter over the light jazz. Bucky took a deep breath and opened the door. 

At first glance, the party looked small and intimate. Just a couple of friends together for the holidays. There was a group of them in what looked to be the living room; a broad-shouldered man with golden hair was speaking with two women. The man laughed and turned his head slightly, allowing Bucky sight of his face. 

Bucky stopped in his tracks, his heart stopping and his blood running cold. 

It was a face he would know anywhere. A face that had been the source of nightmares since the 30s.

It was Steve. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are so close to this meeting. So close to happiness maybe coming our way. 
> 
> Obviously, I listened to Taylor's new album on repeat while writing this. 
> 
> As always, comments produce joy, and joy in my life maybe translates to joy on the page? Who knows! If you want, you can see ;) 
> 
> I hope you all have a wonderful Holiday season! I hope you can see family, whether that's in person or virtually. I love all of you, and wish you the best <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And if I didn't know better/ I'd think you were talking to me now/ f I didn't know better/ I'd think you were still around/ What died didn't stay dead  
> -Marjorie, Taylor Swift
> 
> :)

December 23rd found Steve standing in front of his closet at a complete loss. He hadn’t bought half his clothes. After disastrous ‘nice’ outfits of khakis and unfitted button-downs, Natasha had taken it as a personal offense and purchased what was probably thousands of dollars worth of new clothes for him. They looked nice, but he hadn’t gone through 95% of them. When he wasn’t expected to dress up or was on mission, he preferred jeans and a sweatshirt, of which he had an abundance of back at the apartment.

But now, even though Wanda’s party was an informal event, he wanted to look nice. He wanted to make a good impression on James. He wanted James to know that he wasn’t just the guy that had a lot of personal crises that he handled by having a conversation with a stranger through a wall. Not that he thought James was still a stranger. No. Steve was closer with him than some of his own teammates. 

Which brought him back to his latest crisis of not knowing what to wear. He didn’t want to ask Natasha because she didn’t know he’d invited James, not when he knew they also had a history. So, he was standing in front of his closet, looking at every shirt and pair of pants Natasha had bought. At least he knew he could bypass the suits. Mostly, he lingered over the selection of button-downs, which had been organized by sleeve length and pattern. When he’d panicked over the wild print on a few of them (there was one with bright pink flamingos and one that looked like it had been taken directly from the 80s), she’d sighed and also provided a range of solid colors. He eyed the dark blue for a full minute before pulling it out and tossing it on his bed. 

Now the pants. 

“You got this, Rogers,” he muttered to himself. It really shouldn’t be this hard, but Natasha had made him doubt everything about his style. 

Most likely as a loving joke, she had given him a pair of stylish khakis that even he could admit looked better than whatever it was he’d found in some store after coming out of the ice. He considered them for a moment, more to make Natasha laugh than anything, before grabbing a pair of black pants. 

He put them on, looked in the mirror, and smiled. He had to give it to Natasha. She knew how to accentuate his body. If he wasn’t trying to impress James, he would probably take offense to the way the pants hugged his ass and how the sleeves barely fit over his muscles. Steve looked good. Even he had to admit that. He’d have to remember to thank Natasha for the wardrobe. 

Steve stopped himself from taking a mirror selfie and sending it to James. The shock of finding out who Steve was would be great enough that he wanted it to be done in person. He also didn’t want to scare James away from attending. Maybe that was selfish. He was probably already scared enough at the thought of meeting Steve in front of people he didn’t know. Steve knew they should’ve met beforehand. That way, they would’ve been able to walk in together. The only apprehension would’ve been James meeting the team. Sure, he’d know who to expect, but that was different than meeting them face to face. 

Steve realized he was ignoring his own fear when he found himself trying to put his socks on backward. James had told Steve he would care once he found out who he was, and as much as Steve had promised he wouldn’t, what if it did? How awful would James feel if Steve just walked away? Maybe James had figured out Steve’s identity and knew they’d met before. But then why wouldn’t he have said anything? 

“You are one distracted guy,” Natasha said, causing Steve to jump. She was standing in his doorway, wearing a tight black dress. Steve couldn’t even guess how many knives she’d managed to hide under it. The party was informal, yes, but this was Natasha Romanoff. 

“Hmm?” 

“First your socks, now your shoes? If you were planning on a tie, you might want to let me take care of that lest you accidentally strangle yourself.” 

“Oh.” Steve hadn’t even realized he’d grabbed shoes, let alone had been trying to put them on the wrong feet. He switched which foot he was trying and had a much easier time putting it on. “Do you think I need a tie?” he asked belatedly. 

Natasha was still leaning against the doorframe. “A tie is just begging for someone to murder you, Steve. Haven’t I taught you that yet?” Only her voice indicated that she might be joking. 

“With you, anything is asking for murder,” he reminded her. 

She smiled and finally entered his room. “So I have taught you.” 

Having finished putting on his shoes, he stood and spread his arms. “Do I look okay?”

She brought her hand to her chin, contemplating as he slowly spun. “I’m impressed, Steve. Just add a belt.” 

“Isn’t a belt just asking someone to murder me?” he asked with a smile. 

Natasha laughed. 

The party started at six, but Steve arrived at Wanda’s at five. He wanted to help her set up. That, and he couldn’t handle sitting around doing nothing at the tower. Which was why he was doing one last vacuum of the already spotless living room carpet. Wanda was in the kitchen, putting the cookies in the oven and starting the dishes. When the vacuum was put away, he grabbed the towel and started drying the bowls. 

“Your friend will like you fine, Steve,” Wanda said. 

“How do you-” 

“Your thoughts are loud when you’re worried. It’s something I’ve noticed over the last few months.” 

“Oh.” Lost in his head, he’d forgotten Wanda could read minds. He wondered how much she’d heard before choosing to say something. “Sorry.” 

“You’re a good man, Steve. If this doesn’t work out for some reason, you’ll find someone right for you.” 

He put the dry bowl on the counter. “Thanks.” 

For a reason unknown to him, her assurance worked to quiet his thoughts. Through the rest of the dishes and setting out hors d'oeuvres, they talked about normal things: the best places in town to get coffee, running routes, book shops Steve enjoyed. It made him feel normal in the way speaking with James always did. Later, Steve wondered if Wanda had purposefully directed the conversation. 

When the rest of the team arrived at six, Steve had to stop himself from looking at his phone every few seconds. James hadn’t said he couldn’t come, so he was probably just running a few minutes late. It was fine. Knowing his team (well, Tony specifically), the party would last until at least ten, after which Tony would probably (definitely) call for an afterparty back at the Tower. There was plenty of time until James showed up. 

Even so, every ten minutes, he allowed himself to look at his phone to make sure he hadn’t missed any text or even a call. Wanda’s buzzer was pretty loud, but even so, it could be easily missed with the laughter and conversation and music. Every time he looked, he faced another round of adrenaline and the fast crash of disappointment. 

When it neared seven, Steve started to get nervous. Excusing himself from a conversation with Sam, Steve walked to one of the many large windows facing the street and looked out. It was a quiet, snowy evening. Only a few cars were parked along the curb. He was about to turn away disappointed and more than a little sad when he spotted someone sitting on a motorcycle. There was no way to be certain, but his heart told him it was James. Steve took out his phone. 

> ME [6:53 pm]: Can’t wait to see you! :D 

Before he could see if the person on the bike took out a phone, Steve forced himself away from the window. He forced himself back into the middle of the living room, where he found himself being pulled into a conversation by both Nat and Wanda. Wanda gave him a small smile. He kept his back to the door, still caught up in the idea of being surprised. 

“Excuse me for a moment,” Wanda said. Steve watched her walk to the door and speak into the intercom system and then forced himself to pay attention to Natasha, who’d started talking about how Clint had had the bright idea of gifting Wanda all the coffee pots he’d hidden in the ceiling. 

“He seriously hid them all in the air vents?” Steve asked. 

“Would you want to face Tony?” Clint asked in return as he walked past. He was carrying an armful of muffins and a mug of coffee. The fact that Clint knew what a mug was was the only thing that surprised Steve.

“I’m amazed you heard that, birdbrain,” Nat said fondly. 

“I haven’t lost these hearing aids yet! I can hear everything.” He said the last word in a whisper and then giggled excitedly. 

Wanda returned and Steve caught the end of an eye roll. “He did gift me a coffee pot and promised that it probably hadn’t been in the ceiling.” 

“I wouldn’t trust that,” Natasha said. “Bleach that thing.” 

Steve longed to ask who’d been at the door. “I’m happy for you, Wanda. This apartment is beautiful. We’ll all miss you at the Tower.” 

Wanda tucked her hair behind her ears. “Thank you, Steve. I’ll be sure to come for movie nights.” 

“Don’t forget game nights,” Natasha said. “We need you to keep Tony in line. You’re the only one who can actually prove that he cheats.” 

Steve chuckled. It always proved to be an interesting evening when they all decided to sit down and play a hand of cards or a game of pool. He’d lost his advantage once they all knew he could actually play pool. The first time he’d hustled Tony had been a night to remember. Tony still went on about it. 

He raised his hand to scratch his ear and that was when Steve saw him standing in the space between the kitchen and the living room. His eyes were wide and he looked ready to bolt. Steve’s mouth went dry. Their eyes met. 

It felt like the entire party stopped. The world stopped spinning. It was just the two of them. Steve was twenty-three again, standing in the pouring rain. He was sitting in the darkness of his room, back against his wall, laughing and feeling like maybe everything would be okay. 

He looked good. He looked really good. He wore a black button-down with tiny white flowers. (If Natasha had gotten Steve a print like that, he might’ve been brave enough to try it.) His hair was in a half-bun, the rest brushing the collar of his leather jacket. The only trace of the weapon he’d been forced to become was the silver of his left hand. He looked really good. 

Seconds passed. The world spun on, unbeknownst to them. 

Steve could walk forward. He could pretend nothing had happened because they’d met again. He could do it. He could. He could walk forward and wrap him in his arms and they could move on. But he couldn’t move—the world had stopped and all he could do was stand there. 

And things had happened. 

Bucky turned and left. 

Steve felt the entire world slip from under his feet. He was amazed to find himself still standing. Still at the party. A beer in his hand. Friends around him talking and laughing. Someone had started playing the piano. 

He didn’t remember excusing himself from the conversation. It was quite possible that he didn’t. He just found himself sitting alone in a bedroom that had to be Wanda’s. The walls were a light purple and lights were strung across the ceiling. A guitar sat against one wall. It was comfortable. He fixed his gaze on a black and white photo of Wanda and her brother. It soon went out of focus. 

The universe hated him, Steve was certain of that. It wanted him to suffer. That, or it was trying to tell Steve something he was just too thick to understand. It all made sense now. The reason it felt like he’d known James for years was because he had. God, Steve was dumb. He’d practically admitted to his identity. He’d given Steve his name, for god's sake. How many times had he heard Winnifred Barnes call him James? 

And he’d been right. Steve did care. He cared so much it felt like he would split at the seams. How many times did he need to lose the man he loved before the universe gave him a break? How many times did he need to have his heart broken? 

“You okay?” 

Natasha had sat beside him for a few minutes before finally speaking. Not that Steve had noticed until she’d spoken. 

“If you tell me ‘I told you so’ I think I’ll throw something at you,” Steve said. 

“I feel awful, I really do,” Natasha told him. “I know how excited you were. I know how much this meant to you.” She put a hand on his. 

“I know you’re trying to help, Natasha, but I just kinda want to be alone right now.” 

When he looked up again, Natasha was gone. 

How hadn’t he realized? Because he hadn’t wanted to. He’d wanted Bucky in his life, but it had just been too hard to face him and their past. So when a new opportunity had presented itself, he’d grabbed it. He had to have known. He had to have. It just hadn’t mattered. 

He’d both let Bucky go and fallen right back in love with him at the same time. (He’d never fallen out of love). So why did it feel like he was losing someone completely different? Why did it feel like this time he was the one making a mistake? 

Because he was. 

Before he knew he’d made a decision, his jacket was in his hand and he was stepping out into the snow-filled night.

***

Bucky was halfway through packing a box of his things with half a mind to find a new apartment that night when he stopped cold. What was he doing? Wasn’t this exactly what he’d wanted? Sure, it wasn’t how he’d expected it to happen, but he’d wanted a fresh start with Steve. That was exactly what he’d gotten. 

He’d never forget how it had felt to stand there, his eyes locked with Steve’s, and have that rush of realization. It was like he’d been hit in the chest with a concrete ball; all the breath had been driven from his lungs. Steve had always managed to steal his breath. 

Bucky had known it would’ve been better for them to meet before. He just hoped he had left before anyone else had seen him. He didn’t know what he would do if he got another text from Natasha. 

Steve had probably gone right back to the party. Once he’d realized, he’d probably have excused himself for just a moment to recollect his thoughts and then gone right back. Once he’d realized, he’d probably put James right out of his mind. Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if he never heard from his neighbor again. 

He couldn’t let tonight be the end. He couldn’t. Not with how much they’d both needed each other. Steve would try to run away, but Bucky wouldn’t let him. Not this time. Not without a fight. He wouldn’t be the coward. 

He would leave it for tonight because they both needed time to think, but tomorrow Bucky would knock on his neighbor’s door for the first time. If that didn’t work, he’d call and tell Steve that he would be at the cafe. He would ask Grant to give James one last chance to actually introduce himself and he prayed to a god he didn’t think he believed in that Steve would accept. 

Bucky gave himself grace for not realizing. With everything going on, he’d needed a friend that understood. Once he’d gotten Grant, he hadn’t asked for more. He hadn’t put it together because he hadn’t wanted to. He’d already lost Steve once. It would’ve hurt too much to lose him twice. 

He was probably going to anyway. At least Bucky had given himself a fair chance this time around. 

Bucky left the half-packed box in the middle of the living room floor with half the mind to finish tomorrow if Steve still refused. He was halfway to his room when there was a pounding on his door. Bucky froze, barely daring to breathe. There was silence. A drunk neighbor probably realized they’d had the wrong door. Bucky took another step, ready for the day to be over. The pounding came again. 

And because the universe had decided it wasn’t done abusing him yet, Bucky took a step back, and then another. He found himself unlocking his door. He found himself opening his door. He found himself staring at Steve. 

His face was slightly flushed and he was breathing heavily as if he’d run the entire way from Wanda’s party. Knowing Steve, it was possible. Probable. Second after second they just stood there, staring. Bucky didn’t know if he breathed. 

Second after second. 

Steve lifted his hand and reached out. It seemed to happen in slow motion. Bucky watched as it carved gracefully through the air. It landed on his shoulder surprisingly soft. Time caught up. Steve’s fingers curled, taking fistfuls of Bucky’s shirt. And then Bucky was being pulled forward. Steve’s lips were crushed against his. 

He’d never known a kiss could be so desperate. It was anger and pain and hope and love. It was the way Bucky had wanted to kiss Steve back in that alley, the way he would’ve if he hadn’t been such a coward. Both of them were breathing hard when Bucky pulled away just slightly. 

“Steve?” he whispered, needing to know if this was real. 

“Shut up,” Steve whispered back, his lips already back against Bucky’s. 

And that was all the encouragement Bucky needed to pull Steve through the door and into his apartment. Steve’s fingers had already found the hem of Bucky’s t-shirt and was pulling it up and over his head. Unwilling to stop kissing him to see what he was doing, Bucky fumbled with the buttons of Steve’s until it was finally undone. Now he was pulling the hem from where it was tucked into Steve’s pants and Steve’s hands were on both of Bucky’s cheeks, holding him in place like he was scared Bucky was going to stop this. 

Bucky had been waiting for this for over seventy years. Ever since he pushed Steve away, he’d been waiting. There was no way he was going to stop.

He finally got Steve’s button-down off and easily pulled off his undershirt, their lips parting only for the amount of time it took to get it over his head. 

“Jesus fuck,” he whispered when he finally caught glimpse of the toned abs.

Steve just chuckled against Bucky’s lips and continued to kiss him, every so often moving to kiss his neck or his cheeks or even the tip of his nose. Bucky allowed his attention to wander just slightly. Ever since he’d seen Steve big, Bucky had dreamed about what it would be like to touch him. He didn’t stop himself now. His hands traced each muscle of his back, his arms, his stomach. When he reached the bullet wounds he’d inflicted, Bucky flinched away. Steve took a few steps forward, forcing Bucky back until he was against a wall. 

Both hands cupping his cheeks again, Steve continued to press kiss after hungry kiss to Bucky’s mouth. Bucky kissed back greedily. He felt drunk on this, and of this was the last day of his life, so be it. He just wanted to memorize as much of Steve as possible if that was the case. The way his lips curled into a smile beneath his, the way his tongue slid between his lips, how he made a different sound if Bucky bit down on his bottom lip than when he sucked lightly on his collarbone or pressed a kiss to his neck. He memorized it like his life depended on it. 

He didn’t know how long they stood there in his entryway, making out like a couple of horny teenagers. Wanting more, needing more, Bucky slipped his hands under Steve’s thighs and lifted him like he weighed nothing. Steve wrapped his long legs around Bucky’s waist as Bucky began the short, slow walk to his bedroom. With little ceremony, he dumped Steve on his bed and followed, stretching himself on top of that glorious body. 

They kissed until they were breathless, until their mouths were red and sore and their breathing became borderline desperate. Steve took his hands from Bucky’s hair and hooked his thumbs in the waistline of Bucky’s sweatpants and worked them down. Bucky fumbled with Steve’s belt, and Steve lifted his hips to help when Bucky made to take his pants off. All the while, their lips never parted. Now that he’d had the opportunity, Bucky didn’t know if he would ever want to stop. It was as if Steve’s lips were Bucky’s centerfold, his anchor that kept him steady. 

At one point, Steve’s fingers, exploring the crevices and feel of Bucky’s body, brushed over the scars on his shoulder. Bucky flinched badly and Steve pressed his lips against each one until Bucky stopped shaking. Sitting them both up, Steve took Bucky’s left arm and peppered light kissed down it’s entire length, pressing one to each knuckle and every fingertip. He’d then placed the softest kiss to Bucky’s lips, one that would’ve shattered him with its gentleness unless Steve had been there to hold him together. 

When Bucky was little, maybe four or five, he’d asked his mother what Heaven was like. Bucky remembered she’d been lighting their menorah. When the candles had been lit, she’d gathered him into her arms and told him that it was being reunited with people you love. It was forgiving differences. It was bliss. With Steve’s lips on his, body pressed against body, Bucky thought there was no other place he could be. 

Bucky never did fall asleep that night. He was exhausted, but he didn’t want to miss one second of this. Steve was deeply asleep, his head on Bucky’s chest, snoring softly. His hair was disheveled from all the times Bucky had run his hands through it. The sheet was draped low on Steve’s back, showing just the top of his ass. With the moonlight on him, Steve looked almost statuesque. It had to be one of the most beautiful sights Bucky had ever seen. 

It was moments like this he missed Grant. It was moments like this that he would knock lightly on his wall and see if he was awake. He’d tell him that he’d just slept with his best friend, the one who’d said he never wanted to see him again, the one Bucky had been in love with his entire life. 

Those two people just happened to be the same person, and that person happened to be asleep, partially on top of him. In his dream, Steve curled deeper into him. He exhaled, his soft breath tickling Bucky. Almost instinctively, Bucky wrapped his arm even tighter around Steve and kissed the top of his head. 

And even though he couldn’t remember being happier, there was a part of him, small as it may be, that couldn’t stop but think _what did I just do?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was going to be mean and end right when Bucky opened the door to see Steve, but decided against it because I've had this scene planned since I started writing this back in May. Also, it's Christmas. So I decided to end on this cliff hanger instead! What's going to happen next? Excellent question. We'll find out together next year :) 
> 
> Chapter Soundtrack: Song of the Sea, Evermore
> 
> As always, I want to know your thoughts, questions, or concerns. 
> 
> See you in the new year! <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Walk away now and you're gonna start a war"
> 
> \- The National

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Sleep Well Beast, The National

Steve woke up the morning of December 24th alone. He stretched his hand out, smoothing it over the empty covers next to him. The sheets were yellow, not his own cream. That was when he remembered. He wasn’t at his apartment, he was at Bucky’s. And he was alone. 

Rather than panicking, Steve sat up slowly. He allowed himself to take in his surroundings. The walls were a light blue grey. A plush rug lay at the side of the bed. But what Steve stared at for a few minutes was the artwork above Bucky’s dresser. It was his. The sketch of the Brooklyn Bridge he thought no one would buy. The artwork that had started all of this.

It wasn’t a room he would’ve expected from the Bucky he’d known as a kid. He didn’t even know if it was a room he would’ve expected from James. It was nice. Comfortable. 

Normal. It felt like the room of someone who hadn’t gone through what they had. He belatedly thought that might be the whole point. 

There were two pictures on the nightstand. One of them was Bucky with Becca and their ma. He couldn’t have been more than ten. The other was of them. Steve remembered the day it had been taken. His birthday, 1941. They’d found a dollar on the docks and had immediately known what to use it for. He brushed his thumb over the glass. They’d been so young, then. They hadn’t imagined anything could tear them apart. It had only taken months to prove them wrong. 

Steve put the photo back on the nightstand and finally got out of bed. Bucky had set out a pair of sweatpants for him and Steve slipped them on. Swallowing down his nerves, he walked out of the bedroom. 

He found Bucky sitting in the living room, his back towards Steve. There was a box in front of him. Bucky was taking things out and examining them before setting them back in with a sad sigh. He reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind his ear. Steve couldn’t seem to move. The morning sun had just pierced through the window, turning Bucky into a silhouette edged in gold. Steve wanted the world to freeze. He wanted to capture the moment in all its beautiful perfection. He wanted to paint it, frame it with gold and send it to the museums in order to say ‘this is what true beauty is’. It seemed absurd to him that the world didn’t already know. 

Bucky moved again. The moment didn’t shatter, but it changed. A living silhouette, apart from the world but still there. A gift from someone with higher powers in order to humble whoever was able to see it. 

The sun disappeared. Bucky returned. His shoulders had hunched, as if he was trying to make himself seem smaller than he was. He made another small noise that pierced Steve’s heart. 

“Hey,” Steve finally forced himself to say when it started to feel wrong intruding on a moment that was obviously supposed to be private. 

Bucky startled, dropping something back into the box like it had burned him. He turned to see Steve, but didn’t meet his eye. “I didn’t hear you get up,” he said quietly. He looked and sounded tired. 

“I just did. Thanks for the sweats.” 

Jesus. What a lame thing to say. He’d just slept with this man he’d loved for his entire life and all he could say was  _ thanks for the sweats? _ This is when he should be telling Bucky he still loved him. That he didn’t care he was James, or that James was the former Winter Soldier. That it didn’t matter because last night had been everything. 

Bucky nodded. “I didn’t think you’d want to put your dress pants back on.” 

Steve nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”  _ Jesus, Rogers.  _

He finally walked forward, exiting the nebulous space between the hallway and the living room. Bucky didn’t move the box. Unable to help himself, Steve looked inside. It was filled with small things; a few books, some knickknacks, art prints. The types of things that turned a space into a home. Looking around, Steve could see where they’d been taken from shelves. 

“Are you packing?” Steve asked. 

He would’ve been happy if he hadn’t known Bucky was James. It would’ve been a weight lifted from his shoulders. Now... it was still complicated, but he needed Bucky to stay. They needed to talk. They needed to figure out how to move forward. 

Bucky shrugged. “I started to last night, when I got home from the party. I hadn’t expected you to come. My plan was to talk to you today, and if you didn’t want to...” Bucky shrugged again. 

“And now?” 

“And now I’m going to make breakfast. Do you like pancakes?” 

It was obvious that he was deflecting the conversation. The worst part was Steve was happy about it. He didn’t even know what he would’ve said if they did talk. 

“I love pancakes. You-” he almost said  _ you know that _ , but Bucky didn’t know that. He’d never tried them until he’d come out of the ice. “Do you want any help?” 

Bucky shook his head. “No. Cooking is something I like to do alone.” 

“Okay.” 

Bucky shoved the box out of the way, stood and walked into the kitchen. He still hadn’t really looked at Steve, but Steve watched him, fascinated and heartbroken at the same time. He was the same man Steve knew, and yet he was completely different. Even with an over large sweatshirt covering him, he held himself in a manner that said he wanted to hide. The man Steve knew had always held himself tall. The way he moved was the most fascinating thing Steve had ever watched. It was the careful dance of someone who’d had to reteach themselves how to move. Steve knew it because he’d done it himself after the serum. Each move was careful, graceful. When he moved his left arm, he moved it slowly, the way one might move in order to prevent startling a wild animal. 

Each time Steve caught himself staring, he forced himself to look away. He knew what it was like to be ogled, and knew how uncomfortable it could get. Bucky hadn’t asked for any of this to happen to him, not like Steve had. So he looked at his surroundings instead, hoping to get a glimpse into the person Bucky was now. Like the bedroom, it was comfortable. The couch had yellow pillows. A soft throw blanket was draped over the back. A record player sat on the shelf by the window, and an impressive number of records were housed in a box on the floor beside it. As much as Steve tried, he always found him watching again. He couldn’t help it. 

“If you want,” Bucky started to say, surprising Steve, “you can borrow a sweater.” 

Steve remembered he was still bare-chested. “Oh, thanks.” It would be easy for him to go next door and grab something, but he didn’t want to leave. With the option to borrow his clothes, it was clear Bucky didn’t want that either. It was like if he left, this little bubble holding them together would pop. If it popped, he didn’t know what would happen. 

Steve walked back into Bucky’s room and opened the closet. A large pile of fluffy, colorful sweaters were neatly stacked on the rack above his hanging clothes. There was a bright pink one that Steve grabbed on impulse. It was the softest thing Steve had ever worn. This time, it was Bucky who needed to stop himself from staring. 

“It looked soft,” Steve mumbled. 

“It’s one of my favorites,” Bucky said. 

“Oh. I can grab a different one if you want.” He didn’t want to, but he would. He would do anything Bucky wanted in order to keep this bubble intact. 

“No. It’s fine. It looks good on you.” Bucky went back to flipping pancakes, so Steve couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a pink tinge on his cheeks. 

Steve smiled to himself. 

It was quiet as they ate. In addition to the huge pile of pancakes, Bucky had also made an obscene amount of eggs. Steve told himself the reason he didn’t talk was because of how good it all was. Because it was good, and he did tell Bucky that. Bucky had quietly thanked him. 

“Let me help you clean,” Steve said when they were done eating. “It’s the least I can do.” 

“No,” Bucky said quietly but firmly. 

“Please.” 

“I can’t let you.” Bucky sighed. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but this routine is how I keep everything together. And-” 

Steve understood. “And I’m throwing it off.” He nodded and stood. “I get it. I came uninvited. I’ll just go, I guess. I’ll return your sweater later, and maybe we can talk?”

Bucky nodded. “Okay.”

Steve nodded again and walked to the door. Bucky followed. It took all of Steve’s self-will to stop him from kissing Bucky goodbye. Instead, he said, “goodbye, then,” and opened the door. 

The hallway seemed cold and distant compared to the warmth and comfort of Bucky’s apartment. He heard the door lock behind him. He maybe heard a sigh, but that could’ve been his imagination. And then Steve knew what he needed to do. He turned around and knocked on the door. 

It was almost as if Bucky had been waiting for it. The door opened almost as soon as his knuckles made contact with the wood. There was an expression of hope on his face, slight but there. Almost as if he hoped Steve would make the first move again. His eyes flickered, very briefly, to Steve’s lips before meeting his gaze. For a moment, Steve considered just kissing him again and being done with it. God, he wanted to. 

“This afternoon, I’m going to be at the cafe,” he said instead. “If you decide that this, that us, is something you want to try, come. We’ll talk.” 

He wanted to say more, but rather than risk the chance of making things worse or face disappointment, he turned and went home. 

***

Bucky closed the door and locked it for the second time. He waited in case there was a second knock. It never came. Refusing to think about anything, he went into the kitchen and started cleaning up the mess he’d made while making breakfast. He’d deliberately made it worse than normal to give him time to do something routine. 

He really didn’t want to think about anything yet, but as he was hands deep in soapy water, scrubbing the pan he’d used for the pancakes, everything came. He’d spent the entire morning trying to not look at Steve’s lips. A large part of him had hoped that Steve was going to kiss him when he’d knocked the second time. The other part had hoped Steve was going to tell him that everything had been a mistake. 

It would’ve hurt, but it would’ve been over. Bucky wouldn’t have had this spark of hope. 

A long time ago, Bucky had learned that a spark of hope was the most dangerous thing to have. It was the thing most easily crushed. 

Bucky was going to the cafe. He would’ve gone even if Steve hadn’t suggested it. The truth was, last night had been the best night of his life. The only reason he’d been distant this morning was because he didn’t know if Steve regretted anything. He still didn’t. That was what terrified him the most. Because what if it hadn’t meant anything? It was a horrible thought, but what if it was just some way for Steve to make him pay his penance? 

He didn’t want to believe Steve was capable of that, but his mind never took into consideration what he wanted. 

Whatever ended up happening today, Bucky wasn’t going to regret anything. He’d proven that everything he’d said in that alley was a lie. So, he was going to go to the cafe. No matter how hard it might prove to be in the moment, he would tell Steve he wanted this relationship. They’d had the hardships. It was time for them to finally have the sun. And then maybe Bucky would be the brave one. Maybe he would be the one to reach out. Maybe he’d be the one to kiss Steve. Because oh, how he had wanted to. 

Seeing Steve this morning, bare-chested and tousled hair, sleep lines still pressed into one side of his face, had done something to Bucky. The image had worked its way into his heart and lodged itself. He wanted that to be a regular occurrence. He wanted to fall asleep with Steve next to him. He wanted to wake up with Steve still next to him. Now that he was brave enough and it was possible, he wanted to live the rest of his life with Steve at his side. 

As usual, he spent a long time in the shower. For the most part, he rehearsed what he wanted to say to Steve.  _ I know I messed up and hurt you. It was stupid and there hasn’t been a day I don’t regret that and if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my days trying to make up for that. Last night meant everything to me. If you’ll give me the chance, if you’ll give us another chance, I want to see if we can make this relationship work.  _ Sure, he knew he’d probably fuck it up while speaking, but it sounded good in his head. 

He didn’t spend as much time on his clothes. He just grabbed his favorite jeans and a comfortable sweatshirt. And then, because he knew sitting in his apartment would just make him overthink everything, he grabbed a book and his journal and went to the cafe. 

It was early, he knew that. He knew Steve probably wouldn’t be there for hours, but he was okay with that. The people at the cafe knew him. They smiled at him when he walked in and could guess his order. With an oversized mug of earl grey and a jumbo muffin he would eat later on, he settled into his favorite booth (the one facing away from the door) and started to read. 

When his thoughts became too loud, he opened his journal and faced them head on. He’d found he was able to actually confront the lies of his mind if he wrote them down. There was something in the physicality of it. It was one of the only fights he was willing to start. 

Bucky tried not to look at the time. He tried to ignore the disappointment that sat like a hot, heavy stone in his stomach as the hours went by. One. Two. Three. Four. His handwriting became fast and heavy as he tried to assure himself that there was a perfectly good reason for Steve being late. He’d been called into Avenger duty. He had gotten stuck on the train. But if that was the case, why wouldn’t Steve have texted to let him know? Bucky even looked around to make sure Steve wasn’t sitting at a table by himself, waiting for him to arrive. 

By the time it was five, Bucky couldn’t stop the abusive thoughts. What was the point? He was the fool. Everything had seemed too good to be true, and it was. 

Six. Night had completely fallen. Snow was falling. Bucky remembered it was Christmas Eve. With as much dignity as he could, he shoved his book and journal away, shrugged on his coat, and made to leave. 

When he got home, he would finish packing. 

***

As soon as Steve closed the door of his apartment, he went into overdrive. Barely able to conceal his excitement, he ran into his room, carefully removed Bucky’s sweater and jumped into the shower. So eager to get ready, he almost tripped on the way out and had to save himself from what would’ve been an embarrassing moment of being splayed wet and naked on his bathroom floor. With a bit more caution, he entered his room and set about preparing himself for the day. 

His plan was to go to the cafe early. He didn’t care how long he had to wait. Steve had waited this long; a few more hours couldn’t hurt. And maybe Bucky would have the same thought and they’d be able to talk and figure out whatever this was. Maybe they’d spend the rest of the day talking. There was so much he wanted to talk about. There was so much Steve didn’t know about him. 

But, he mustn’t get ahead of himself. The first order of business was to get there. And in order to get there, he needed to put clothes on. Jeans were easy enough. Normally, he’d just go with a sweatshirt, but he wanted to make a statement. He wanted Bucky to know without a doubt that he was choosing this. Without a second thought, he grabbed the sweater and put it on. Already it felt like an old friend. 

Ready as he would ever be, he slipped on his shoes, grabbed his keys and opened his door only to find himself face to face with Natasha, her hand raised to knock. Without saying anything, she walked past him, leaving Steve no choice but to close his door again. It wasn’t the first time she’d stopped by his apartment, but it was a rare thing. Natasha stared at him for a full thirty seconds without saying anything. Her face was its usual deadpan, but with the way her gaze lingered on his sweater, Steve knew she had something against it. 

“We need to talk,” she finally said. 

“Can it wait? I was just on my way somewhere and it’s important.” 

“It needs to be now.” 

Steve looked at his watch and sighed. “You have five minutes.” In reality, it would probably be a couple of hours before Bucky got to the cafe, but Steve wanted to be there. He’d already made his choice. 

“Will you go for a drive with me?” 

“Natasha.” 

“Please, Steve.” She allowed the mask to come off and Steve could see how much this was weighing on her. And like he said, he probably had an hour or two. 

“Okay.” 

Natasha visibly relaxed when she had his agreement. Rechecking to make sure he had his keys in his pocket, he opened the door again and followed Natasha out. She waited to make sure she got into the car before slipping in behind the wheel. 

“So what is it?” Steve asked after they’d been driving for a few minutes. 

Natasha didn’t answer. She just changed lanes and took an exit. It was only when they crossed into New Jersey that Steve got worried. He dug into his pocket for his phone in order to let Bucky know he might be late. It was with a horrible sinking sensation, dread crawling hot down his spine, that he realized he’d left it on his nightstand. He didn’t dare ask Natasha to borrow hers. He just prayed he’d get back at a reasonable time. 

After an hour of driving, he tried again. “Natasha, where are we going?” 

She still didn’t answer. Ten minutes later, she pulled into a tiny parking lot on the side of the road. If Steve had been driving, he wouldn’t have even known it was there. She got out of the car and he followed suit. There was a small trail leading through the snow. Natasha didn’t wait to make sure he was following before she started down it. Sighing, Steve set off after her. 

They didn’t talk the entire half-hour they walked. The trail climbed and wound its way through a sparse pine forest. Finally, they reached an overlook with a bench. Natasha sat and Steve did the same. She looked out at the lake hundreds of feet below them, glistening in the winter sun. If it were any other time, Steve would’ve enjoyed the hike and the view. 

“What is this about, Natasha? Why go through all this trouble?” 

She kept looking at the lake. “I needed to make sure you couldn’t run away from this conversation. You need to know why I’m so against you and Barnes.” 

Steve sighed. He should’ve known. He probably had, he just hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it. He opened his mouth, but Natasha beat him. 

“It’s your turn to listen, Steve,” she said, finally looking at him. “You have your past with him and I have mine.” Her hands were folded together; her knuckles were white from how tight she was holding them. 

“I’m listening.” He said it more gently than he’d spoken before. Natasha rarely spoke about her past, and never without a drink in front of her. 

“Back in the Red Room, where I was trained, he was one of our trainers. He taught us how to kill.” 

“But that wasn’t Bucky-”

“Steve, let me talk, please.” She swallowed. “I know there’s a difference. I know he had as little choice as me. Mostly, I knew the Soldier. He spoke only when spoken to. He was distant and cold. There was no emotion in his eyes. He did his job and he did it well. But one day, he was different. There was emotion in his eyes. It was faint, but it was there. During that day’s lesson, there was the slightest bit of hesitation before giving the final blow. 

“It wasn’t a rare thing to hear his screams when they wiped him. I think they positioned the dorms so we could, so we would know what they were capable of and scare us away from rebelling in any way. It was the first time I knew why they did it though.” 

Steve didn’t want to listen. He understood why Natasha had picked this place to tell him. It was impossible for him to run away. 

“Whenever we had lessons with the Soldier, I paid attention to his eyes. I was scared. I was good at what they were teaching me, but I was terrified. I wanted out. There was one day when he was the most lucid I’d ever seen him. I could tell he was trying to hide it. There was a moment that day where we were alone. I took a risk and pleaded for him to help me. He said he would. That was the first day I met Barnes.” 

She took a moment. Steve knew he didn’t want to hear the end of the story. He reached out and took one of her hands. She’d listened to him after seeing Bucky on the bridge. 

“They handcuffed us to our beds at night in order to keep us from escaping. Barnes had managed to slip me the key, and I quietly left the room. They didn’t post guards. Why should they need to? The fear of what they could do would’ve been enough to keep us in bed even if we weren’t chained. I crept through the halls and reached the spot we’d agreed to meet. He was there waiting for me. Only it wasn’t Barnes. It was the Soldier.” 

Steve watched her face work as she tried to keep her composure. He knew he should be honored that she trusted him enough to be vulnerable, he just wished it didn’t have to be over this. 

“I don’t know if it was under torture or what, but before they wiped him, Barnes told them I’d be out of bed. When they took me away, he just stared at me, face perfectly blank. It didn’t matter to him that I would be punished. I prepared myself the best I could; it would’ve been far from the first time I was tortured. When we were young, they’d picked students at random in order to instill fear.” Her hand twitched. Steve tightened his hold in an attempt to provide comfort. 

“I knew something was different when they walked past the room I knew so well. When I understood where they were taking me, I wanted to try and fight back, find some way to escape, but there was no use. Even if I’d managed to get away from who was holding me, the Soldier was behind me. He just watched as they secured me into the chair built for him.” 

Pure ice ran through his veins when he understood what he was telling him. “They wiped you, the way they did him.” He was surprised that his voice was audible. 

“It took me so long to remember that night. The only thing I never forgot was the relief on his face that it was someone else. I don’t even think he knew who I was.” 

“How old were you?” He didn’t want to know the answer, but the question came out anyway. 

“Ten.” She took a deep breath. “Look, Steve. I know you think you know him and maybe you did, but you don’t know the person they twisted him into. He lets other people get hurt in an attempt to save himself. I know I haven’t done a very good job of showing it lately, but I care about you. I don’t want you to get burned.” 

Steve took a couple of minutes to think. Natasha’s location made sense now. It didn’t just keep him from running away, it forced him to take the time to think. “I don’t want to minimize your pain, but I can’t believe Bucky willingly gave you up.”

The look of betrayal on Natasha’s face was almost enough to have him try and take the words back. “You’re siding with him.” 

“I’m not siding with anyone. What happened to the both of you never should’ve happened. All I’m saying is that the man I knew-the man I know-he would never willingly hurt someone to protect himself.” 

“You know that’s a lie.” 

“I don’t want to fight Natasha. I appreciate you telling me all this. I do.” 

“But you’re still going to trust him.” 

“He means something to me, Nat. He means a lot, actually.” 

“I just want to protect you. You’re blind when it comes to him.” 

“And you aren’t?” He sighed. “I know he hurt me, Natasha. I was going to walk away. I told him that. If he hadn’t been my neighbor, if we hadn’t talked and he hadn’t been everything I’d needed, I would’ve. I fell in love with him again, Nat. That has to mean something. I owe it to myself to see where this leads.” 

She nodded and looked out at the lake. Steve took it as a good sign that she didn’t try to take her hand back. 

“You knew I was living next to him. Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked after a long period of silence. 

“Because I thought he would leave. I was hoping you would never need to know. At that point, you were happy.” 

It was strange to think back on that time. It was only months ago, but it felt like years. Natasha was right, he had been happy then. At least he’d been trying to be. There was just one thing she was missing. “I’m happy now, too.” 

Her face softened. “That’s all I really care about.”

“Thank you for telling me,” he said again, softly this time. “I know it couldn’t have been easy, reliving those memories.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and she leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. It had taken a long time for Natasha to be this vulnerable with him. He was glad he hadn’t lost that privilege. 

They sat there for a while longer. It felt wrong to get up and leave. She didn’t know that he was planning on meeting Bucky that afternoon. As much as Steve wanted to get to the cafe, he wouldn’t do that to her. 

“I stole you from your plans,” she eventually said. 

“Yeah.”

“We can go.” 

They didn’t speak the entire hike back to the car, or on the ride home. Steve was acutely aware of how late it was. He didn’t even want to know what Bucky was thinking. He just prayed he was still there. He prayed he would accept Steve’s explanation. He prayed he hadn’t fucked everything up. 

As much as he wanted to have her drop him off at the cafe, he had Natasha stop at the apartment. It felt wrong to hide this from her, but he wanted the beginning of their new relationship to himself. Assuming it would still begin, that was. Assuming Bucky was still waiting, or had even come at all. Once he knew what was happening, then he’d tell her. 

He didn’t bother going up to his room. As soon as Natasha had driven away, he got on his bike and drove as fast as the snow and holiday traffic would allow him. His heart pounded the entire drive. There was an empty spot right in front of the cafe. It was right behind another bike he prayed was Bucky’s. Rehearsing what he was going to say, he barely paid attention when he opened the door and ran into someone. 

“Sorry, I wasn’t-” Steve blinked and realized who he’d run into. It was Bucky. He didn’t look angry or sad. He looked disappointed. “I’m so sorry I’m so late. I had a friend-” 

Bucky cut him off. “Look, I don’t know if this is some kind of game to you, Steve. I don’t know if you’re trying to show me what it felt like after I left you in ‘41, but last night meant something to me. I thought it meant something to you as well, but maybe I was wrong. If it didn’t, if it was just some joke to make me pay my penance, then I’m done. Make up your mind, Steve. I’m too tired to do this anymore. It hurts too much.” 

He tried to push past Steve, who was still blocking the doorway. Steve grabbed his arm to keep him from leaving. 

“Let me go, Steve.” 

“No. I’m not going to let you walk away from me again. I wanted to tell you I was going to be late, but I forgot my phone charging on my nightstand. I’m sorry. But if you think last night didn’t mean something to me... Bucky, it meant everything to me. You mean everything to me. I know I didn’t show that to you today, but please give me another chance to prove it.” 

Bucky took a small step back, eyeing Steve warily. Steve still hadn’t moved his hand. “How?” 

Steve half-shrugged, feeling foolish before the suggestion was even out of his mouth. “Let me take you out for dinner? We can’t start over, and I don’t want to, but if you’ll let me, I’d like to take you out for a date.” 

“Are you courting me, Rogers?” 

“If you’ll let me. I know nothing will erase our past, but given these past months, I think we owe it to ourselves to see where this leads.” 

Bucky didn’t say anything. Steve could see the battle in his eyes. 

“If you don’t say yes to Steve, at least give Grant a chance. He’s still a bit sad he didn’t get to meet James at the party.” 

Each second felt like years. Steve prayed. He still hadn’t taken his hand from Bucky’s arm. Finally, Bucky nodded. 

“Tomorrow. There’s a Chinese place I like on Skillman Drive. You can pick me up at 6.” 

Elation rushed through him. “I’ll be there, I promise.” 

Bucky nodded, a hesitant smile crossing over his lips. Steve wanted nothing more than to ask if he wanted to come back over to his place for a drink, but he didn’t want to push his luck. 

“Well. Um. I’ll see you then, I guess.” He finally removed his hand from Bucky’s arm. They both watched as his arm fell and rested at his side. Before anything else could happen, he turned away. 

***

Bucky stood, stunned and speechless, as he watched Steve let the door close and walked away for the third time that day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter courtesy of my voice deciding to leave so I can't do anything at work! 
> 
> So, I was working on a chapter of all fluff for my other fic, but my brain was like, work on this instead! I'm going to give you so many sad things and you're going to write them. So I did. 
> 
> Hope you're all doing well! As always, kudos and comments are most welcome as they make me very, very happy :) That, and I want to know what you're thinking as you read <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the first kiss, it's flawless, really something, it's fearless - Fearless, Taylor Swift

Steve tried to keep busy. He tried to clean, but he’d spent so little time in his apartment as of late that there was laughably little to do. He tried to draw, but his fingers seemed to forget how to hold a pencil. He tried to read, to watch a movie, to do anything to keep him from looking at the clock every two minutes, but nothing could keep his attention. 

All he could do was think about how Bucky had agreed to this dinner. All he could do was think about the cautious hope that had filled his eyes; how there had almost seemed to be a flash of disappointment when Steve had stopped touching him. How in five hours, twenty-six minutes, and thirty-four seconds, he would be knocking on Bucky’s door and they would be going on a date. Not as Grant and James. Not as two people who had to hide their intentions. As themselves. 

Maybe Steve could finally start figuring out who he wanted that to be. After having so many people tell him who he was expected to be, he’d stopped trying to be himself. It was easier that way. He disappointed fewer people. Only the people who cared noticed. Only the people who cared tried to confront him about it and actually cared what he had to say.

He’d always tried when it came to Bucky. Maybe now it could actually mean something. Maybe he actually wanted it to mean something now. 

Steve hadn’t spent a lot of time thinking about it because it forced him to acknowledge how little he had in his life apart from this job, but he’d started to wonder what it would be like to hang up the mantle. He could give the shield to Sam, maybe. If Bucky asked him to, he’d give it all up. If he could live a normal life, if he could have it with Bucky, he’d do it in a heartbeat. 

But one step at a time. Get through dinner first and then he could start thinking about forever. 

***

Bucky spent the afternoon in the kitchen. Vegetables were chopped, steaks marinated and seared, bread proofed and baked, pie dough rolled out and filled with a variety of berries. It was mostly to keep himself busy. It was also to have something prepared on the off chance that Steve had to cancel. 

It wasn’t that Bucky expected that to happen, he’d just learned it was easier to prepare for disappointment than hope for satisfaction. And when had life ever given him anything good? So, he cooked and baked and ignored the clock until his alarm forced him to acknowledge it was five. Nerves tight in his stomach, he pulled himself away from the gleaming kitchen and dragged himself to the bathroom to get ready. 

Head bent over the sink, he prayed the cold water would chase away his exhaustion. He hadn’t slept again last night; hadn’t even tried. He’d sat on his bed, back against the wall, and mourned the loss of Grant. It was stupid—Steve had been on the other side of the wall, Bucky had heard him tossing and turning—but he’d keenly missed the solidarity that had existed between them before they’d known the other. He’d known Steve was awake. It would’ve been easy to talk. Bucky would’ve if he’d still been Grant. It was just different now. 

Maybe for the better. God, he hoped so. 

Drying his face, he mussed his hair into something acceptable and then waited. 

As soon as the clock hit six, there was a rap of knuckles at the door. Bucky opened it after the first knock and came face to face with Steve. He wore a pair of black jeans and a burgundy button-down. A worn leather jacket was draped over his left arm. After seeing Bucky’s outfit of jeans and a henley, he looked at his own choice of clothes again. 

“Am I overdressed?” he asked. 

“A little,” Bucky admitted. While the food at this restaurant was exceptional, it was an extremely casual atmosphere. 

“I can change-” 

“No,” Bucky said quickly. He ducked his head trying to hide the flush that came over his cheeks. “No, you- you look good.”

“Well then, um, should we get going?” 

Bucky nodded. Steve didn’t move. He just kept staring at Bucky like he was debating something that held life or death consequences. 

“Steve, you’re blocking the doorway,” Bucky said. 

Steve snapped back to reality. “Right, sorry.” 

He took a step back and, after making sure all his lights were off, Bucky grabbed his own jacket, left his apartment and locked his door. Arms brushing, they walked down the hall to the elevator. Steve pushed the button and the doors opened with a cheerful _ding._

Bucky considered Steve throughout their short journey to the garage. It astounded him to no end that someone so sure of himself in life and death situations could be so timid in others. Right now, Steve was staring at his hands. His shoulders were curled forward, the way they’d always been before the serum, when his sharply curved spine had created a whole host of problems for his posture. Bucky didn’t even know if Steve was aware of it; the moment the doors opened again, his back was straight and he walked with confidence to his bike. 

Theoretically, Bucky had known that they would be taking Steve’s bike to the restaurant. Theoretically, Bucky had known this meant he would be sitting behind him, arms wrapped around his waist, chin on his shoulder. Theoretically didn’t mean shit in the actual moment. 

Steve swung his leg over his bike and kickstarted the engine. Bucky stood to the side, left hand gripping his right elbow. Steve looked at him, lips quirked in a one-sided smirk. 

“You comin’ or not, Buck?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Steeling himself, Bucky swung his leg over the bike and pressed his chest against Steve’s back. His lips nearly brushed Steve’s ear and he felt the hitch in Steve’s breath. If Steve turned his head, their lips would be millimeters apart. He drove out of the garage instead. 

The restaurant was how Bucky remembered it. Red paper lanterns provided soft, easy light; black and white photos of China filled the walls; small families and groups of friends chatted over huge plates of steaming food. The hostess led them to a booth in the back and handed them menus. Rather than catch the look he knew Steve was trying to give him, Bucky buried himself in reviewing the options even though he knew his order would never change. 

“Their orange chicken is phenomenal,” he told Steve. “Especially if you get it with lo mein. I’ve been meaning to figure out how to imitate their recipe, it’s so good. But their fried rice is also fantastic, and paired with their mushroom chicken, you can’t go wrong.” 

Fingers curled around the top of the plastic menu and pulled it down. Bright blue eyes stared at him imploringly. Bucky looked down. 

“But if you’re not in the mood for chicken, their beef and broccoli is divine.” 

“Bucky, I couldn’t care less about the food,” Steve said. 

“Oh.” He kept looking at the table, letting his eyes focus on a complicated knot in the wood. 

“Will you look at me?”

Bucky dragged his gaze up and met Steve’s again. There was a soft smile on his face. Not so much on his lips, but in his eyes. It was a dangerous look. Warmth spread through Bucky. Curled his toes. Made him happy. He always wanted to make Steve look like that. He always wanted Steve to look at _him_ like that. 

“How have you been, Buck?”

And it would be so easy to tell him everything. That he wasn’t doing as well as he would like to be; that he was scared to sleep; that he looked over his shoulder most times he walked alone; that he longed for a future he had started to believe he didn’t deserve; that he was scared Steve was going to decide again that he couldn’t do this, and Bucky didn’t know what that rejection would do to him after opening himself up again and hoping; that he wanted everything Steve had to offer and more and that scared him because why should he deserve it?

It’s what he would say to Grant.

“Pretty good,” is what he said instead. And there was no way Steve wouldn’t believe him when he said that because if there was one thing Hydra had taught him, it was how to lie so convincingly even he believed it was true. He tried to believe it was true. 

But then- “Is that what you would tell Grant?” 

And Bucky couldn’t lie again, not when the smile in his eyes had turned sad. “No.” 

“I’m still him, Bucky. Everything I told you as him was true. The things I trusted you with, those hopes, those fears, they’re all still mine.” 

Bucky was saved from answering by their waitress arriving. They ordered, and as soon as she disappeared into the kitchen, he changed the subject. 

“Why exactly were you late yesterday? You said a friend had something to do with it?” 

Steve put his head in his hands and rubbed his face, threading his fingers through his head. “Yeah. Nat kidnapped me, dragged me all the way to a nature preserve in New Jersey.” 

“Nat as in Natasha Romanoff?” He should’ve been able to guess. 

Steve nodded. “She knew the moment you were back in town and she didn’t tell me until we ran into each other. She wanted me to understand why she was against the two of us.”

Bucky looked back at the table again. “She warned me to stay away from you. Threatened me a couple of times, actually.” 

He heard Steve breath out heavily through his nose and looked up to see his hands had curled into fists. His eyes were closed and for just a second, Bucky caught a glimpse of the boy he’d fallen in love with. “Just when I think she’s finally understood that I don’t need protection.” There was another sharp breath. “I’ll talk to her about that, I’m sorry.” 

“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Steve,” Bucky told him, though it flattered him that Steve was so upset on his behalf. 

“No-it’s not- it’s just that she thinks she needs to be worried about me.” 

“Does she?” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Bucky just shrugged. “I figure if there’s anyone who knows they should be worried, it would be her. Hydra teaches you to learn everything about everyone. She probably knows you better than you do.” 

Steve shook his head. “You’re the only one who does.” 

“Did,” Bucky said quietly and hating himself for it. 

“What?” 

“I used to know you. Or, I thought I did.” 

“Buck-” 

“It’s not fair to say that, I know. I know there was a reason you never told me how you felt—I mean, look what happened when you did. It just makes me wonder, did I really know you as well as I thought I did, or did I just know the person you wanted me to know?” 

“I know it’s a bit rich coming from me, especially because of how I reacted, but can we forget about that? Can we just pretend, for a moment, that we met on the street one day and decided we wanted to get dinner?” 

Bucky nodded. “I’d like that. I just-can I say one thing before we do?”

Steve nodded, a small hesitant thing. 

“I’m gay.” And how good it felt to say that to someone other than himself.

A small furrow appeared between Steve’s brows. “I know.” 

“I know. I just-I’ve never told you. I knew it for a long time, and it scared me. But now.” Bucky shrugged. “Hydra spent a long time trying to force me to be someone I’m not, and if it means I get to love you, well...” he smiled, a small wistful thing. “It can’t be too bad, now can it?” 

Steve seemed to be at a loss of words. The food arrived and they spent the next few minutes eating in silence. 

“You’re right,” Steve said, a piece of orange chicken hanging from his chopsticks. “This has to be the best orange chicken I’ve ever had.” 

“I don’t play around when it comes to food.” 

“So what do you do now that you’re free?” Steve asked. 

Bucky swallowed his mouthful of rice. “I’m a clerk at _Cherry Street Deli_.” 

“You mean the one we went to as kids?” 

“Is there another? It’s actually where I met Natasha again, if you can believe that. She was buying lunch.” 

Steve suddenly grinned. “Was it pasta salad?” 

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Bucky said, proud he remembered that. “Why?”

“That was for me. I was running obscenely late for something—not my fault!” he exclaimed when he saw Bucky’s raised brow. “I was in this meeting with Tony, and you knew Howard, he never shut about something once he got going, and Tony’s the same way. I asked Nat to pick me up something so I could at least eat while we reviewed mission plans. She knows how much I love that pasta salad.”

“So what are you doing these days? I mean, when you’re not running around being Captain America?” 

Steve suddenly looked abashed. “Art, I guess.” 

“You guess?” 

He looked at the table, his shoulders drawing forward again. “There hasn’t really been time for me to be anyone other than the Captain lately. It’s hard going back and forth between him and me, so sometimes I just don’t.” 

“Steve,” Bucky murmured. 

“I know. Sam’s already given me the talk. There just hasn’t been the time to figure out who I want to be.” 

“What’s your favorite movie?” Bucky asked, almost cutting Steve off with the abruptness of his question. 

Steve looked taken aback, his eyes narrowing, his nose scrunching. “Robin Hood, the 1973 version.” 

“Your favorite band? When you paint, what do you listen to” 

“I don’t know. I like jazz. Nat gives me a bunch of playlists she thinks I’ll like, and I’ll throw those one every once in a while.” 

“Favorite food?” 

“Beef stew and apple pie—you remember how my ma made it? I’ve still found nothing to beat that.” 

Bucky put his hand on Steve’s arm. Steve looked at him, his expression deep and unreadable. 

“That’s Steve Rogers,” Bucky said. “It’s Steve Rogers who likes to sit on a couch and watch that movie until it annoys everyone else. It’s Steve Rogers who sits in front of a canvas and listens to jazz and tunes out the world and probably splatters paint everywhere because he’s too lost in the world he’s creating to be present in the one he’s living. It’s Steve Rogers who would look up at his ma and ask for a second slice of pie even though he hadn’t finished his meal and was two days past a raging fever.” 

They still hadn’t broken eye-contact, and Bucky didn’t think he could look away even if he wanted to; the blue of Steve’s eyes was too deep to swim out of. The air became impossibly thick. Steve’s brows knitted together, the expression in his eyes growing deeper. Bucky’s heart beat violently. He found he could move his gaze and his eyes landed on Steve’s lips. Feather light fingers brushed over his hand. 

“I don’t know how I walked away from you, Buck,” Steve said. His voice was little more than a whisper but Bucky caught every word. “It was the hardest thing I ever did, and I spent every moment after trying to convince myself it was the right thing to do.” 

“Then stop trying to walk away,” Bucky said. “Stop trying to be something you’re not because everyone is telling you it’s who you have to be. Do what you want to do for a change.” 

Steve’s bottom lip was between his teeth. Bucky watched the bob of his Adam’s Apple as he swallowed. And then- “okay.” 

He started to lean across the table and Bucky went dizzy at the thought of his lips pressed against his skin again. The waitress appeared with the check before anything could happen. The moment shattered, Bucky took his hand back. Steve sat back against the booth, his feelings hidden behind a mask of perfect neutrality. He handed his card to the waitress and she disappeared to run it. 

Bucky had eaten a third of what he normally would, but he couldn’t fathom eating another bite. He shoved his food around his plate. When the waitress reappeared, he asked for a box and then set his empty platter at the edge of the table. 

“Should we go?” Steve asked quietly. 

Bucky nodded. 

In the time they’d been in the restaurant, it had started to snow. Thick, heavy flakes fell soft and slow from the orange-tinged clouds. Steve wiped off the seat of his bike and they set off. The entire ride, Bucky tried not to think about how warm Steve’s body was pressed against him, and how if he moved his hand, he could feel the steady beating of his heart. He just closed his eyes, rested his head against his shoulder, and let Steve drive them home. 

***

Steve eased his bike back into the garage and they silently got off. He was immediately cold with the absence of Bucky’s arms wrapped around him. 

“I guess this is normally where I’d leave you,” Steve said when they reached the door of the apartment. Snow coated Bucky’s hair. He stopped himself from reaching out and brushing it away. “But considering the circumstances, I suppose I could walk you to your door.” 

Bucky just nodded, the expression in his eyes masked. Steve opened the door for him and followed him inside. This time, they took the stairs. They reached their hallway faster than Steve would’ve liked, and stood awkwardly in front of their doors. Bucky’s right arm was crossed over his chest, his hand gripping his left elbow. 

Steve couldn’t leave him. “Do you-”

“Would you maybe-” 

Steve chuckled. “You first.” 

Bucky shook his head. “No, please. Go on.” 

“I was wondering, would you maybe want to come over and watch a movie or something?” 

The relief on Bucky’s face was palpable. “I would love to. Just give me a few minutes to change into something more comfortable?” 

Steve could’ve laughed, he was so relieved. “Of course. Take the time you need. I’ll leave the door unlocked? You can just knock and then come in.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

They continued to stand there, neither of them moving. If Steve only took one step forward, he could close the gap between them. If he wasn’t mistaken, Bucky’s eyes were on his lips. 

“I’ll see you in a couple minutes, yeah?” Bucky asked, wrenching Steve out of his fantasy of pulling Bucky forward and kissing him again. 

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Yeah. I’ll see you.” 

“Okay.” This time Bucky did actually move. After unlocking his door and giving Steve one last glance, he disappeared. 

Steve pulled his keys from his pocket and entered his own apartment. It was cold and dark. After being in Bucky’s, he’d become keenly aware of just how bare and empty his was. Apart from the painting over his couch, there was nothing on his walls. He grew angry at himself; he was an artist for fucks sake. There was no reason his walls should be bare. They should be filled with his work, or works of others that inspired him. There should be pictures. Something to indicate the person who lived here actually had a life. 

Aware he was on a time crunch, he promised himself he’d fix that when he had the time and headed to his room, where he stripped off his jeans and button-down. Dressed in his favorite sweatpants and a soft white t-shirt, Steve returned to his living room where he started looking through his collection of movies. If there was only one good thing about being frozen for the better half of a century, it was that people were adamant about his need to catch up on pop culture (people being Sam and Natasha). They’d purchased most of his collection. 

True to his word, there was a soft knock on the door and then Bucky let himself in, being sure to lock the door behind him. He too had dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a black t-shirt. There was a sweatshirt hung over his left arm. 

“Hey,” Steve said, smiling. “What do you think about Lord of the Rings?” 

“Never seen it,” Bucky replied, slowly making his way into the living. It was obvious he was doing his best not to glance around. 

“You’ve never-” Steve realized he was about to sound like Sam and stopped himself. Of course, Bucky probably hadn’t seen a lot of movies. “Would you like to?” 

“Sure. I honestly don’t really care what we watch. I just-” he dropped his head, looking up at Steve through long lashes, and if that didn’t do something to Steve. “I just didn’t really want this night to end.” 

Warmth spread through Steve at the confession. A blush spread through his cheeks and he busied himself in setting the movie up. He heard the leather crack and groan as Bucky sat down on the couch. When the title screen was on the tv, he turned back around. 

“Popcorn?” Steve asked. He didn’t particularly want any, but he’d make it if Bucky wanted it. He’d make anything if Bucky wanted it. 

“No. I’d take some water though, if that’s okay.” 

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Steve went to the kitchen and filled up a water bottle. When he handed it to Bucky, their fingers brushed. Bucky quickly tucked the water at his side with a quiet thanks. 

Steve sat on the opposite end of the couch, silently cursing himself for buying one that was this big. It’s not like he ever had anyone over, why did he think he needed one that could fit an entire family? Sure, it was comfortable, but what did that matter in times like these? He looked at Bucky out of the corner of his eye; he was staring intently at the screen as Galadriel explained the power of the rings. 

And god, Steve didn’t know how he’d ever thought he could hate this man. How had he ever believed he could live his life without him? There was a soft smile on his lips as the Shire came into view for the first time. Bucky caught him staring. Rather than ducking his head, he offered Steve a smile, the lines around his eyes deepening. 

He didn’t know when it happened. Bucky had curled up on his side, his right hand stretched out. Steve didn’t remember moving his hand. Maybe he did. Maybe it was Bucky. Maybe it was both of them. Their pinkies touched. And then their ring fingers. And then Bucky’s hand was in his. 

Steve stared at the screen, but he wasn’t taking anything in. Bucky’s skin was warm. His thumb brushed against Steve’s knuckles. He chuckled at something Pippin said. The rich, warm sound was something Steve could spend the rest of his life listening to; he would spend the rest of his life trying to draw it out of him. 

“Stevie, you okay?”

Steve shook his head. “What?”

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for the past minute.” 

“Sorry.” 

Bucky was sitting up, and he was closer now. Not close enough for their shoulders to touch, but close enough that if he wanted to, Steve could lean forward and kiss him. 

“Steve?” 

“Sorry, what?” 

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Nevermind. It’s not important. I’m sure I’ll figure it out.” 

“Oh. Okay.” 

When Bucky rested his head against Steve’s shoulder, he had to force himself not to jump. He angled his shoulder down a bit and slowly wrapped his arm around Bucky. When he didn’t protest, Steve pulled him flush against his side, and Steve could’ve sworn he heard him sigh. Content, Steve rested his cheek against Bucky’s hair. Bucky opened Steve’s hand and trailed his fingers along the plane of his palm. Steve closed his eyes. 

The Fellowship had just been named in Rivendell when Bucky lifted his head. Their noses were centimeters apart. Steve could feel the quicker in Bucky’s breath. This close, he could see the want in his eyes, and how could Steve ignore it when it matched his own? He dipped his head and closed the gap between their lips. It was just the lightest touch, but it seared him. It was like until now, Steve had been an exposed nerve and Bucky was the salve. 

He pulled away. Despite having slept with him, Steve would never believe himself to be entitled to the heaven that was Bucky’s lips. Bucky put his hand to the back of his head and pressed their lips back together. Steve cupped his cheek, sinking into the touch. Bucky’s fingers played with their hair at the nape of his neck. 

Bucky fell asleep, cradled in Steve’s arms, shortly after the Fellowship entered the Mines of Moria. They’d spent much of the time before then kissing. Steve spent the rest of the movie watching him sleep. When it ended, Steve grabbed the remote and turned the tv off, plunging the living room into soft darkness. The only light came from the windows, where it was still snowing. 

Bucky shifted in his sleep, burrowing closer. Steve tightened his hold. He wasn’t going to question how he’d been so lucky to get this second chance; he was going to spend the rest of his days treasuring it and trying to make sure he deserved it. If Bucky would let him, he'd spend the rest of his life treating him like a king. A lock of hair fell from where it had been tucked behind his ear. Reverently, Steve tucked it back. Bucky was too deeply asleep to move. 

“I love you, Buck,” he murmured into the silent room, lips brushing his ear. “Always have, always will.” 

He had no idea what time it was. Cradling Bucky in his arms, Steve carried him into his room and gently tucked him into his bed, drawing the covers up to his chin. Loathe to leave him, he sat on the edge of his bed and watched him dream until his own exhaustion overcame him. He pressed a kiss to his temple and ran a finger across his cheek, letting it stay against Bucky’s skin as long as he dared. 

The couch was cold without Bucky. The sweatshirt he had brought was still draped over the armrest. Pulling it over his head, Steve grabbed a thick blanket, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's that for an update? I finally gave you actual progress 
> 
> It's been quite the 2021 so far, hasn't it? Author update, I'm moving in the next few weeks, so I really don't know what my writing schedule will be like. Although, tis fic is my main project now, and considering how much I write at work while waiting for things to load... 
> 
> As always, I crave your comments and kudos. Mostly comments. They're the only email I actually get any joy from. (Although, please give me your love. Kudos will buy love). <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I will hold you as you held me/ You gave me shelter, you gave me safety/ You said, "hold gently what you wish to grow old with/ Like a sparrow in your hands still needs to fly/ Hold gently what you wish to grow old with/ Don't close those hands"  
> \- Hands, Roo Panes
> 
> It's not a fic by me unless someone sobs into someone else's chest :)

Bucky woke from the best sleep he’d had in years to sunlight streaming through the blinds. His mouth tasted stale. Mind hazy and blissfully quiet, he stretched out under the covers and cast his eyes about the room. The white walls. The turned-over photo on the nightstand. The sketchbooks on the desk. Steve’s room. 

The last thing he remembered was the warmth of being cradled in Steve’s arms, the feeling of Steve’s lips on his. His warm happiness. He’d put his head on Steve’s shoulder for a second. He didn’t even remember closing his eyes. Steve must’ve carried him. 

The space next to him was empty. There was no indication that there had ever been someone to fill it. Frowning, Bucky got out of bed. Immediately shivering, he grabbed the sweatshirt that was draped over the back of the chair. It smelled like Steve. 

Steve was in the bathroom, wiping his face with a towel. The back of his hair was sticking straight up. He wore the sweatshirt Bucky had brought over last night. 

“Where did you sleep last night?” Bucky asked, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. “Tell me it wasn’t the couch.” 

Steve jumped at his voice and dropped the table. He didn’t pick it up, just turned to face Bucky, guilt and embarrassment clear on his face. “Would you rather me tell you that I sat in my desk chair? Personally, I think the couch is a much better answer.” 

“Steve.” 

“Yes, I slept on the couch.” He picked up the towel and tossed it into the hamper in the corner. 

“Why?” 

Steve shrugged, glancing in the mirror and running a hand through his hair. It did nothing to fix the bed head. “I gave you my bed.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“And that required you to sleep on the couch?” 

A faint blush crept up Steve’s cheeks. “I didn’t want to assume...” 

Bucky reached forward and pulled Steve against him, his hands on the small of his back. “Please tell me exactly what transpired last night that made you believe I wouldn’t have wanted you in bed next to me. Please tell me so I can correct that.” 

“I get it, I’m an idiot.” 

Bucky moved one hand to the back of Steve’s head and pulled it down so their lips were centimeters apart. “We can work on that,” he whispered. 

“Okay,” Steve whispered back before pressing their lips together. 

He slipped his hands under Bucky’s thighs and lifted him onto the counter. Bucky’s hands went to cup Steve’s face. Steve’s hands went to Bucky’s hair. And Bucky’s stomach growled. Loudly. Bucky rested his forehead on Steve’s shoulder, groaning. Steve started to laugh. 

“Can I ask what’s so funny about this?” 

“I honestly don’t know what I have to offer in terms of food,” Steve replied. “Terrible of me to host you and have nothing to offer.” 

Bucky’s stomach growled again. “Give me a look at your fridge and I’ll make something work.” 

Steve led the way to the kitchen. Bucky opened the fridge. Apart from condiments, a gallon of spoiled milk, and a container of something Bucky didn’t even want to think about, there was nothing. 

“I’ve been gone,” he said as a way of explanation, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. “I thought I had more than this, but apparently not.” 

“Well, I guess we’re just spending the day at my place then,” Bucky told him. 

And that’s exactly what they did. Steve gathered a handful of things and they made the switch, peering out at the hallway like a couple of teenagers about to be caught out of bed. Bucky made them breakfast and once the kitchen was clean, they settled on the couch to spend the day curled under blankets. Bucky pulled out his current read, and when Steve shyly asked if he could borrow a book, Bucky handed him a dog-eared copy of  _ The Book Thief _ . 

Shortly after ten, the snow started again. According to the news, it wasn’t supposed to stop until tomorrow night. In addition to what they’d gotten last night, at least ten inches was expected to coat the city. It was the first time Bucky wasn’t terrified to be stuck in his apartment. 

It was beautiful, to be honest. The flakes were huge, and the wind was calm. If Bucky wasn’t so comfortable, curled up against Steve’s chest, Steve’s hand lazily dragging through his hair, he’d even suggest they go out for a walk. But he’d dreamt of having this for so long that he wasn’t about to give it up, not for anything less than the end of the world. Even then, he’d be content to let it end. What better way to die than in the embrace of your love? Maybe he was just a romantic. 

Or, maybe he was just happy. 

Steve’s fingernails scratched his scalp as his hand passed through again. He chuckled at something. And god, could Bucky just wallow in this. This could be his life. 

He could see it now. Waking up with Steve next to him, yellow sun spilling onto their bed. Making breakfast together. Going on walks to the farmers market, buying flowers and produce. Going home and opening the windows and cleaning. Making dinner together. Existing together. 

He wanted to exist with Steve Rogers. He wanted it so badly it hurt. 

“Steve?” he asked quietly. 

“Hmm?” 

“This is what you want, right? I’m the person you want?” 

“I love you, Buck. You know that.”

“That didn’t stop you from walking away.” Because of course, he couldn’t just let himself have this. 

Steve closed his book and turned so he was sitting cross-legged, his knees pressing against Bucky’s. He took Bucky’s hands in his own and looked down at his lap before taking a deep breath. 

“Bucky, what happened back in the ‘40s was all circumstantial. I knew I was taking a risk. I knew there was a good chance you would panic and I disregarded that. I thought I was prepared to hear you say no, but it hurt more than I expected, and I was angry. So I walked away. I thought it would make me feel vindicated. I don’t know.” He looked up, meeting Bucky’s gaze again. “Maybe I thought I was saving you. All I knew was that I couldn’t be in the same place as you. I loved you too much.” 

“You asked for me to be sent home.” Bucky didn’t know why he couldn’t just let this go. 

Steve shrugged half-heartedly. “I thought I was saving you,” he said, his lips turned up in a twisted smile. “I didn’t want you in the war, and I finally had the ability to save you. The day you fell-” he hid his face again. “The day you fell was one of the worst days of my life. I thought, you should be happy he’s gone. You don’t have to pretend anymore, you don’t have to look over your shoulder because that’s where he should be, where he’s always been. But I didn’t know how to live in a world where you didn’t exist anymore.” 

“You had Peggy, you had Addison, you-” 

“I was afraid to be alone, Bucky. I thought you were gone-you  _ were  _ gone. No matter how much I loved you, I hadn’t expected that to change.” 

“But you told me you couldn’t do this, you told me you-” Bucky dropped his head, ashamed. 

Steve’s hand brushed over his cheek, warm and rough, and oh so gentle. Bucky wanted to cry at the touch, unable to comprehend why he deserved this. “I thought letting you go was what I was supposed to do.” 

“If James was a different person, if he wasn’t me, would you have fallen in love with him just the same?”

“The reason I fell in love with him was because he was you. Because he was kind and funny and I could tell that he had darkness in his past, but he didn’t let that stop him. I know this whole situation is weird, but Bucky, I’m with you. I love you.” 

Steve’s thumb brushed over his cheekbone. Bucky leaned into the touch, craving it. “What are we, Steve?” 

“What do you want us to be?” 

Bucky took his hands back and cupped Steve’s face between his palms. “I want this,” he whispered. Steve’s eyes closed when Bucky’s thumbs brushed over them. He traced his cheekbones and his jaw. The touch was familiar—one he’d done a hundred times over when Steve had been in a fight and Bucky had been checking the severity of his injuries—but Steve had never looked like this before. Like he was ready to do anything if it meant this never ended. Like Bucky’s touch was a cure he’d never expected to receive. Like he loved him. 

“I want to wake up to you, and live with you, and go to sleep next to you. I want to hold you after a bad day and have you know everything will be okay. I want to love you. I want to be loved by you. I want whatever you’ll give me.” 

Bucky’s left thumb traced the outline of Steve’s lips. Steve pressed the softest kiss to it. 

“Ask me to step away from the Avengers,” Steve said, voice strained with emotion. “Ask me to stop being Captain America. Ask me to buy a house with you somewhere far from all of this. Ask me and I’ll do it. I swear to god I’ll do it.” 

Bucky wanted to. God, he wanted to. “I can’t, Steve. I won’t-can’t ask you to abandon your team.”

Steve nodded, his expression devastatingly sad. “Then ask me to kiss you.” 

Bucky didn’t ask. He just guided Steve’s lips back against his own. Steve sighed into the touch, opening himself to it, moving one hand to rest on Bucky’s back and hold him tighter. They didn’t do much more than kiss, but they did kiss for some time. 

“Is this real?” Bucky asked quietly, his forehead against Steve’s. 

“If it isn’t, then I never want to wake up,” Steve replied and Bucky kissed him again, soft and sweet, before curling back into his chest. Steve wrapped an arm around him, twining his right fingers with Bucky’s left. 

“I love you, Steve,” Bucky said. “I figure it’s time that I finally said that.” 

The snow continued. 

***

“Hey, Buck?” 

The room had darkened considerably, though neither of them had moved to turn on a light. Steve was so comfortable curled up on the couch with Bucky pressed against him that he could easily fall asleep if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to. He wanted to be awake for as much of this as possible. Now that this was real, he didn’t want to miss anything. 

Bucky grunted to show that he was listening. 

“Would it be okay if I drew you?” 

“Haven’t you before? When we were kids, I mean.” 

“Well yeah, but I wasn’t any good back then.” 

“You’ve never been modest when it comes to your art, Steve,” Bucky said, turning the page of his book. 

“Fine, I want an excuse to stare at you in a way that won’t come across as stalkerish because there’s a point to it.” 

Bucky snorted. “You just want an excuse to get me shirtless again.” 

Steve went red. “No!” he managed to squeak out. “I wouldn’t ask that of you unless you were comfortable with it.” Although, he did want to sketch his arm. All of it. 

“Relax, Stevie,” Bucky drawled. “Where do you want me?” 

“You’re sure?” Steve had been expecting more of a pushback. 

Bucky shrugged. “Figure you won’t stop asking until I say yes, and there’s nothing better to do, so what the hell.” Steve gave him another long look. Bucky pushed his arm. “Seriously, Stevie, it’s fine. Go grab your stuff.” 

“Don’t move,” he instructed, jumping off the couch. 

Bucky scoffed and resituated himself. “Where else would I go?” 

“Just-” he shook his head. “Nevermind.” 

He heard Bucky laugh as he walked to the front door, where he’d left a pile of his things on the chest. Returning with his favorite sketchbook and case of charcoal, he flicked on the lamp and sat on the coffee table. Bucky set his book down and started to take off his shirt. 

“You really don’t have to,” Steve said. 

“Steve, shut the hell up.” Bucky threw his shirt to the side. “Okay, maybe don’t shut up. How do you want me? Like this?” He lay on his stomach, his legs in the air behind him with his ankles crossed, his chin propped in his palms. “Or, like this?” He slouched on the couch, looking up at Steve with hooded eyes. “Or, like this?” He sat on his knees with his arms stretched out in front of him, turning his head so he looked at Steve. “Or, maybe like this.” He draped himself sensually across the couch, his left hand touching his face. “You wanna draw me like a french girl, Stevie?” 

“Jesus Christ,” Steve muttered. 

“I usually only answer to Bucky, or James if you’re my mother, but I’ll make Jesus Christ work.” The grin on his face made Steve want to hit him. 

Steve opened his sketchbook and grabbed his favorite stick of charcoal. “Just sit naturally. I want to get the feel for your body again before doing anything else.” 

Bucky’s eyebrows almost disappeared into his hair. “And you think drawing me is the best way to do that? Steve, there are easier ways. If you wanted to sleep with me again, all you had to do was ask.” 

And Steve couldn’t help but grin because this was Bucky—his Bucky, the one from before the war. Before confessions, and fights, and bombings, and trains. And this display was only for him. To make him laugh. To make him smile. 

“Just sit up please,” he said with a shake of his head and a helpless smile. 

“If you want to be boring about it, fine.” Bucky sat up, leaning his left elbow on the armrest and propping his head up with a few fingers on his temple. “This good?” 

God, he was beautiful, with a few wisps of hair escaping his bun and framing his face. The cocky grin was gone, replaced by a subtle turn of his lips. Steve could spend years tracing those in an attempt to do them justice. He grabbed his pad, rested it on his knees, and began to work. 

***

Bucky had never watched Steve sketch for more than a few minutes at a time before. It had felt like he was intruding on something intimate—a dance between the artist and the subject—and he’d respected that. He’d watch for a moment or two, just to appreciate the sight more than anything else, and then returned to whatever it was he’d been doing. He didn’t know how he’d ever managed the will to turn away. Now that he knew that this-that Steve-was his, he didn’t know how he would ever manage to look away again.

Steve was beautiful, his head bent down, his brows furrowed, his sleeves rolled up. Bucky studied him, seeking out the boy that had cared too much to let things be; the boy with a spirit of fire encased in a body of glass. The boy he’d fallen desperately in love with. Out of all things, it was in the movement of his hands that Bucky found him again. Specifically in how he brushed his hair away from his forehead, streaking dusty lines of charcoal onto his skin. It had always fascinated Bucky, the way he did it. The graceful turn of his wrist. 

Hours passed that way. For the most part, Steve didn’t smile when he worked. He looked at peace. But every so often, he’d catch Bucky’s eye and see his smile, and his stroke would falter for a moment, like  _ he _ couldn’t believe this was real, too. 

“Buck?” There was a hesitant expression on Steve’s face. 

“Hmmm.” 

“Don’t get mad.” 

“That’s a great way to start a conversation.” 

Steve took a breath. “Your scars, can I? It’s easier for me to draw something if I’m familiar with how they feel.” 

Bucky hesitated, remembering how badly he’d flinched away the last time, how he’d nearly broken. He remembered the feel of Steve’s lips against them. That had been the first time anyone had touched his left arm with gentleness. 

“You can say no,” Steve said. “I’ll be fine without.” 

“It’s okay,” Bucky said, his voice catching. 

Steve set his work to the side and moved to the couch. Bucky closed his eyes, readying himself for the soft brush of Steve’s fingers. It never came. He opened them to see Steve staring at him, eyes serious. 

“Are you sure?” he asked. 

Bucky nodded once. “I want you to.” He wanted to replace the memory of pain and fear.

Slowly, Steve stretched his fingers out. They landed on his skin softer than Bucky thought imaginable. He still flinched away. Steve immediately withdrew his touch. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered, ashamed of how thoroughly Hydra had destroyed him. 

“You don’t have to apologize for something that was done to you, Bucky. None of this is your fault.” He looked down at his lap as he said the final words. 

“It’s not your fault either, Steve,” Bucky said, knowing exactly what he was thinking. 

“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly, taking Bucky’s left hand in his own. 

Bucky nodded. “You’d think I’d get used to the constant pain. In a way I do, I guess, but it’s more so knowing that I’m going to be in pain.” 

“How much do you feel?” Steve traced the grooves on his palm. 

“I feel the pressure, but that’s all.” That, and the never-ending pain. 

Steve’s hand slid up his arm. “Is it the same for the entire thing?” 

Bucky nodded. “The worst part isn’t even the pain,” he said. “It’s the way it pinches and pulls. It makes everything worse.” 

Steve’s hand was on his shoulder, his fingers close to where the metal was soldered into his skin. “Do you trust me?” he asked, his expression unfathomable. 

Bucky didn’t even need to think. “Yes.” 

With as much care as one would use with a child, Steve turned him. Featherlight fingers landed on his neck and began to massage the tight muscles. They’d been tense for so long he’d forgotten about them, and Bucky sighed when they began to loosen. Steve eventually worked his way to his right shoulder, digging his thumbs into the knots Bucky had mistaken for bone. 

“Lay down,” Steve murmured. 

He did, and Steve sat on his butt. Using his thumbs and heals of his palms, he kneaded Bucky’s back, coaxing muscles to release the tension they’d held for years. Each time Bucky flinched away from a touch, Steve leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the scar. With each, Bucky felt closer and closer to tears. He didn’t deserve any of this, least of all from Steve—not when he’d told Steve that his disabilities had been part of the reason he couldn’t love him. And yet, Steve didn’t stop. 

Hot tears burned his eyes. He swallowed around the painful spikes in his throat. Steve had reached the band between his shoulder blades. These were the scars that had turned him into the monster. The ones that had driven him into submission in the hopes that the pain would stop. He remembered every one with agonizing clariety. The red hot knife. The frozen metal. The one that had been allowed to fester. The electrical burn. Steve pressed a kiss to all of them. 

And Bucky shattered. Steve cradled him in his arms as he finally allowed himself to cry over everything that had happened to him. Horrors that he’d repressed for years finally resurfaced and refused to return to their cage. Through it all, Steve just held him. 

***

Holding him was all Steve could do. Heart aching, he wrapped his arms around Bucky and held him close and didn’t let go. Bucky took fistfuls of his shirt like it was a lifeline. Steve whispered sweet nothings, stories with no endings, stories from his mother, things that Bucky could follow to find his way back to shore. When Bucky started to shiver, he grabbed a discarded blanket and draped it over his shoulders, rubbing soothing circles over his back. 

Steve knew what it was like to be treated with kindness for the first time in years; to be treated as a human with dignity rather that someone to be walked over and mistreated. He knew what it was like to shatter. He knew the terror and the helplessness. He knew what it was like to believe he’d never be okay again. But he also knew what it was like to take that first breath after and know that things finally  _ could  _ start to be okay again. 

Steve had never been certain about a lot of things in his personal life. He’d pretended, yes, tried to fool anyone who’d believe him that he knew what he was doing. Moments of certainty were so rare that it took him a moment to realize it was there. Nothing, not even a code red, could make him leave this apartment. He’d been told by most of his team to find a life, to find something that made him excited to live. He had. Not even they could make him let it go. 

Eventually, Bucky’s sobs quieted into hiccoughs. Steve still didn’t let go. Bucky didn’t push away. He whimpered when Steve moved, readjusting himself so he could lean against the back of the couch. Steve pressed a kiss to his temple. 

“Not going anywhere, Buck,” he soothed. 

That didn’t stop Bucky from securing a tighter hold on Steve. If it were any other situation, Steve would’ve chuckled. Now, it just pained him to know that the organization he’d given his life to destroying had partially destroyed his reason for living. Maybe if he hadn’t crashed the plane—no, he wasn’t going to catastrophize. What was done was done. They were both here. That was the part that mattered. 

Steve didn’t know what time it was when he stopped watching the falling snow. Bucky was asleep. Had been for a while now. Steve didn’t want to move him, but he was hungry. It had been at least six hours since his last meal. Possibly more, considering how much he lost track of things while drawing. 

Loathe to do it but left with no choice, he stroked his finger up and down Bucky’s cheek, hoping to wake him gently. “Hey, Love,” he murmured. “It’s time to get up, okay?” 

Bucky didn’t stir. 

Steve shook his shoulder and Bucky whined, burrowing deeper into his chest. He smiled. “It’s time to get up,” he murmured again. “We gotta eat something, and then we can go back to bed okay? But you have to eat something and drink some water.” 

“Warm,” Bucky muttered. 

“I know, but we can get even more comfortable after we eat, okay? I promise. And if you want me to, I’ll even join you in bed tonight.” 

At that, Bucky’s grip on him got even tighter. “Not leaving.” 

“No, I’m not leaving,” Steve said. “I’m not leaving ever again, not if you don’t want me to. But I really need to eat, Buck, so I have to get up, and that means you have to get off me.” 

Bucky finally lifted his head and Steve almost laughed at the scrunched, grumpy expression on his face. His eyes were barely open. Steve pressed a soft kiss to his warm lips. 

“Up we get.” Arm still wrapped around him in support, they stood up. Steve got him to the table where he sat back down and immediately pillowed his head in his arms, eyes struggling to stay open. Steve grabbed his shirt from the floor and handed it to him. 

“Thanks,” Bucky muttered, putting it on. “I made some steak yesterday afternoon.” He said it through a yawn, but looked a bit more awake than he had a second ago. He still looked terrible. “There should also be a tupperware of vegetables to go with it.” 

Steve found the appropriate containers and put them on the counter. While they were heating, he found the cabinet with glasses, filled one with water, and set it in front of Bucky. 

“Drink,” he said sternly. 

Bucky picked up the glass with both hands and sipped at it childlike. The microwave beeped and he switched tupperware, cutting up the steak while the vegetables were heated. The water was half gone by the time Steve set the plate in front of Bucky. 

“‘M not hungry” he mumbled, picking up the fork and stabbing half-heartedly at a piece of broccoli. 

“You don’t need to eat all of it, but you need to eat something. Trust me, it’ll help.” 

Bucky took a bite and chewed slowly, and then with more vigor as if he realized how hungry he actually was. Satisfied, Steve started eating as well. 

“Steve?” 

Steve put down his book and looked up to find Bucky standing awkwardly by the couch. His face was still drawn and pale, but he looked better than he had at dinner. His hair was damp from his shower and he wore an over large sweatshirt with sleeves that covered his hands. He played with the stretched out cuffs. 

“Yeah?” 

He dropped his head and mumbled through a curtain of drying curls, “can you do my left shoulder?”

Steve nodded. Bucky made to sit on the couch, but Steve stood and intercepted him. “Let’s do it on your bed though so you can fall asleep when you need to.” 

Snaking his arm around his waist, Steve guided him to his room and had him get comfortable. The comforter pooled in his lap. Without a word, Bucky removed his sweatshirt. Once again, Steve started at his neck and massaged the muscles until they relaxed. Moving slowly to give Bucky time to anticipate the touch, he slid his hand along his left shoulder and started kneading. Even though he avoided the worst of the scaring, he could tell by the clenching of Bucky’s hand that he was doing his best not to flinch away. 

“I’ll need you to let me know if anything gets to be too much, okay?” Steve asked. 

“How can you stand it?” Bucky asked instead, quietly, a few minutes later. 

“Stand what?”

“Looking at all my scars.” He said it like he was ashamed of them. 

“Buck, we all have them.” He dug his thumb into the valley between two, willing the tight muscle to loosen. 

“Not like these,” he whispered. But he didn’t move away from Steve’s touch. 

“Do you know what these scars are?” Steve asked. 

Bucky didn’t respond. 

“They’re proof that you survived. They’re proof that you’re strong. They’re proof that no matter how hard Hydra tried, they failed.” 

Bucky still didn’t say anything. Steve sighed, focusing on a particularly stubborn knot. 

“I’ve always thought you were beautiful, Bucky. This doesn’t change anything. I know you might not believe that, and I get it, but you’re beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful.” 

The knot released and the relief in Bucky’s sigh was palpable. “Thank you,” he murmured. He grabbed his sweatshirt again but just held it in his hands, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. 

A curl fell out from behind Bucky’s ear. Steve reached out and tenderly brushed it away, his knuckle dragging across his cheek as he did. Bucky leaned into the touch. The exhaustion was clear in his eyes. 

“You should sleep,” Steve told him. 

“‘M okay,” he said, still staring at his sweatshirt like he didn’t quite know what to do with it. 

“Uh-huh. That’s what I would say a day after a fever broke and I wanted to get out of the house.” Steve arranged the pillows behind him and got under the covers. “Come here.” 

Bucky continued to look at his sweatshirt, his head bowed. It was impossible to read his expression. 

“Come on, Buck.” He reached out and gently pulled him. Bucky followed without complaint, resting his head over Steve’s heart. Carding his fingers through Bucky’s hair, he hummed the lullaby his ma had always sung when he’d been unable to sleep. 

Steve could hear the quiver in Bucky’s breath; could feel the tension building back in his shoulders. His heart broke for him.

“You can sleep,” Steve whispered. “You don’t have to worry about me going anywhere.” 

A hesitant hand slid across Steve’s stomach to rest on his ribs, holding him close. Hot tears wet his shirt. Steve continued to hum, occasionally slipping into quiet singing, his fingers continuing to run through Bucky’s hair. A shuddering breath finally coursed through him and he fully relaxed into Steve. His breathing deepened. Steve arranged the comforter to cover his shoulder and continued to hum. 

His own eyes burned with exhaustion, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep. He’d be awake all night watching over Bucky. It was only right he finally be the one to sit a silent vigil. Bucky had done it enough when he’d been suffering fever after fever. He wondered if at any point Bucky, guilty, wished he wouldn’t make it through the night just to end the torment of fear. He wondered, guiltily, if he would’ve done the same. 

The lamp on the nightstand left long shadows on the wall. His vision moved in and out of focus. His eyes drooped. His head fell forward. Steve snapped back awake. Bucky slept on. Steve secured his arm around Bucky’s shoulder and started singing again softly in his mother’s language to keep himself awake. 

When his phone buzzed with an incoming call from Natasha, he froze. Bucky didn’t stir. 

“Hello?” Steve kept his voice low. He didn’t think Bucky would wake, but he didn't want to take the chance. The only reason he’d answered was because it was Natasha. 

“Are you with Barnes right now?” she asked. 

“I’m not going to apologize for it,” he said, a note of warning in his voice. 

“I don’t want you to.”

Steve rubbed his eyes. “Nat, does this have to happen now? It’s not the best time.” 

“I’ll make it quick,” she promised. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately about what you told me the other day—about how you’re happy. I’m about to go out on mission, but I just wanted you to know that I’m happy for you.” 

Steve blinked in surprise. “Thank you, Nat.” 

“I’ve also told the team you’re going to be unavailable for the next few weeks, so unless there’s the end of the world, no one should bother you.” 

Steve didn’t realize how much of a weight that had been on him until it was lifted. 

“And-” her voice was surprisingly soft and gentle. “I’m sorry for keeping him from you.”

“Nat-”

“We’ll talk more when I get back.” Steve could hear the whine of an engine in the background. “I have to go, but I wanted you to know that.”

Steve was left pressing a dead phone to his ear. He slowly lowered it. An apology from Natasha never came lightly. Steve had only heard her acknowledge she was wrong once. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what had happened to make her change her mind on something she’d promised she never would. 

He trailed his pointer finger over Bucky’s shoulder, tracing petals on the long stem of a scar. His vision went out of focus again. Two weeks of freedom. Two weeks of being no one but Steve Rogers. Two weeks of devoting time to actually figuring out who he wanted that to be. Two weeks of learning and forgiving and being free. Of making mistakes and cleaning up and loving the man beside him. 

Two weeks of Bucky Barnes. 

And no matter what those two weeks brought, Steve couldn’t think of a better thing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Healing and happiness are coming, I promise. Also, I figured out the end and you're going to hate me, and then love me. But! Until then! 
> 
> Comments make me feel joy, and I'm not opposed to begging. Give me your thoughts. I crave them. 
> 
> <3


End file.
